


Scenic World

by RhetoricFemme



Series: Scenic World AU [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Adoption, Aimless Science Geek!Jean, Depression, M/M, Musician!Marco, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, postgrad jeanmarco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 01:02:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11429913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhetoricFemme/pseuds/RhetoricFemme
Summary: Jean returns close to home after graduating college. Thrilled to be among family and drawing closer to a new chapter in life, he encounters a few elements of surprise along the way.Marco is a musician finishing graduate school. Content to go it alone, he's working to establish himself professionally in a community he's come to love, but ends up with more than he bargained for when Jean returns home.





	1. Take On Me

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time I was just happily listening to Reel Big Fish, when all of a sudden I had visions of Shingeki boys in a ska band, with a side note of Jean finding playful ways to grab Marco's attention. This was never meant to become an actual story, and was supposed to be one of those favorite little AUs you keep safely in your own head.
> 
> Oh well. :)

_We’re talking away_  
_I don’t know what_  
_I’m to say I’ll say it anyway_  
_Today’s another day to find you_  
_Shying away_  
_I’ll be coming for your love, okay?_  
\--Take On Me (A-ha, as covered by [Reel Big Fish](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QHpU0ZfXZ_g))

 

The air is thick and humid as stars and streetlamps vie for attention on Grand River Avenue. String after string of Italian lights and neon signs brighten the faces of still-relaxed college students looking to soak up their final vestiges of freedom. It’s a few more careless nights out before summer classes claim some of them. It’ll only be a matter of time before internships and whatever supplemental income can be found claims others.

A few more sleepless nights and weekend getaways before the Michigan cold comes on, and academics have swallowed them whole.

Up and down the bustling sidewalks, conversation and music meld into one steady hum, combining the interior noise of several college town bars with the rhythmic cadence of never ending foot traffic.

For a while it’s the only thing Jean Kirschstein is able to hear. He turns his head back toward Eren Yeager, whose been by his side most nights out since they first met in their Ohio State dorm four long years earlier.

Now, Jean strains his ear while pushing against the pub door that spills them back out into the mid-June evening. He figures they have about a mile on foot to go, and is intent on making it to their next destination while both of them are still sober.

His brothers had texted that afternoon, telling everyone that they’d finally made it back and were finally crashing in their own beds. Jean had been sitting in the living room while their mother sent patronizing group texts for having not received an earlier phone call; for letting some cab take them home when they could have been greeted by family. He’d laughed when his brothers sent a flurry of apologies and emojis, respectively, promising to show up for breakfast the next morning.

Walking several blocks north, Eren and Jean banter aimlessly as Jean turns them down a side street, mentally relearning the college town he frequented as a teenager. The campus neighborhoods he used to receive text directions for, typically leading him to some random jam session or another. Some old band acquaintance showing off their non-dormitory digs, only to forget names and faces as they all grew older and began to go their separate ways.

Tonight’s directions are simple enough. The faces and terrain all familiar and good. Jean chooses to forgo the map, as he’d like to properly learn the town he’s about to call home. If he can find his brothers’ house from main streets and major highways, he may as well learn it from the side streets he’ll soon be coming home to each night.

Jean isn’t too far from home as it is, having himself grown up in a small city not more than an hour’s drive away from Michigan State University. Eren, on the other hand, hails from Shiganshina, a small town near the Michigan-Ohio border. It’s an area where school rivalries run high, and he can vividly recall the endless ribbing Jean had received from fellow Buckeyes for having grown up in the heart of Spartan territory.

It’s Eren’s turn now. Having weathered the best and worst of undergrad together, he and Jean have begrudgingly grown fond of one another. Enough so that when Jean had informed Eren that he’d be going home after graduation, Eren had shrugged and said maybe he’d go with him.

_“Seriously? You’re gonna go that far from your hometown? On your own will?”_

_“Why not?” Eren had crossed his arms, putting his nose up in the air stubbornly. “Michigan State has a damn good law school. And besides. If your sorry ass can stay down here for four years, then I should have no problem doing it.”_

Having somehow found the patience to appreciate how the other functions, all they’d needed was time to garner a sense of respect for one another. Now on the eve of graduate school, they’ve been holding over with Jean’s parents until finally reaching the move-in date for their apartment right off campus.

Living out of his childhood bedroom for the last several weeks, Jean is at once grateful for his family and ready to reclaim a place of his own. He and Eren have spent their time working on several contracting jobs Jakob Kirschstein had in the works, in doing so managing to make some decent money while biding their time.

Jean found himself savoring the pick-up jobs more than previous summers, as something in his gut told him this season might very well be his last. It wasn’t that Kirschstein-Smith Contracting would soon find itself with a lack of work to distribute. Having spent more than two decades building a name in the community, and solidifying their reputation for excellence, it was quite the opposite.

Rather, Jean was crossing his fingers that his own time might soon come at a premium. That he might finally happen across whatever it is he was designed to tend to in this mortal world. At the very least, he wanted to put his foot down and choose a direction to walk in.

When he hasn’t been busy cutting drywall or helping Eren install major appliances, Jean cites his own maturation almost by accident. Seeing it in the way he takes care of various tasks around the house without prompt or question. Consciously looking for ways he might be of help.

Whether that be picking up his parents’ dishes after a meal, or wandering to the pole barn and tending to whichever plants need watering, time and again Jean catches himself in search of little opportunities to make himself a means of assistance to the people around him.

Jean doesn’t mind so much. He’s beyond the concept of relishing the last days of summer. Doesn’t catch himself overcompensating by tacking salty commentary onto his kindnesses, and looks for nothing in return.

When he glances up at the kid staring out from any number of family portraits—the one with the dirty blond undercut and crooked grin—Jean realizes with some degree of relief that he hasn’t been  _that_  insufferable in quite some time. He still has the mouth of a sailor, but hey. Some things just aren’t meant to change.

Jean’s mother had gone out of her way to catch up on Eren’s well-being, particularly interested in the fact that that he was seeking a career within her own field. Jean had found her to be in peak _mom form_ , as he and his brothers referred to it, since the last opportunity she’d had to entertain Eren had been several winters ago. Spoiling him with second helpings at dinner, and picking for details on what about law interested him.

In her eyes, Eren was same as ever. Passionate and good-natured, high energy, and just a touch obnoxious.

Four years ago, Susan Kirschstein had laughed when she first met Eren, declaring that his outgoing personality and antics made him a perfect friend and foil for her son.

_“Come on, Jeanbo! He even likes that jumping music you’re so into.”_

_“It’s ska.” Jean had informed her with a roll of his eyes. “And I haven’t gotten to actually play any in over a year.”_

_“Even so.” His mother chided. “You two will get along.”_

It may have taken time, but she hadn’t been wrong.

As it turned out, Eren was a standup guy. Jean fast learned that he took shit from no one, all the while looking out for the people close him. On one occasion, Jean had compared Eren to a paranoid helicopter parent, only to receive a dirty look for his remarks.

_“Yeah, but I don’t see you telling me I’m wrong.”_

_“Fuck off, Kirschstein.”_

_“Uh huh.”_

He had a natural propensity for singing and the guitar, and as far as Jean was concerned, Eren’s generally terrible taste in music could be forgiven for his status as a fellow band geek. Their shared interest in high-energy, brass-wielding ska music was simply an added bonus.

Now, with the better part of the night still ahead of them, Jean and Eren have walked far enough to leave the high decibels and bright lights of campus behind. Ahead of them lie the car-lined streets and the trim, still-clean lawns of several frat houses readying for the impending school year.      

It’s quieter here tonight. Quiet enough for the wind to carry the still far-off sounds of music toward them; robust, bell-like and floating easy on the air. Nothing like the hard drums and synthesizers of the bars. This sound has piqued Jean’s interest, inciting him to forgo all logical direction and to find out where the distant melody takes them.

It’ll all work out fine. At worst they take a small detour through the neighborhood, though Jean’s gut has thrown him enough insight that he knows he now moves them in the direction they need to go.

At this hour, it’s what some folks might consider raucous noise. It’s what Jean refers to with a truer sense of homecoming and nostalgia.

“Eren,” Jean elbows him gently while motioning with his hand. “We’re going this way!”

“Hm?”

“Just come on.”

Airy notes off a French horn waft from the side streets, causing Jean to pick up the pace. He grabs Eren by the arm before veering through a well-lit neighborhood where older, more obscure houses span in front of them.

It’s Eastern European music drawing Jean near, along with familiar laughter and a trademark pattern of notes he’s so attuned to that it’s in his bones.

Standing at the edge of the block, Jean takes his time to hear the music. The rush is off, as he’s found the lot he’s after, and now stands satisfied in hearing the songs wafting off their lawn.

Moonlight glints off the bell of an old trombone, its sounds braiding into the melody created by the French horn, all of it cadenced by a few clever implements and well-practiced body drums. It’s no song that Jean knows, but then he also realizes the likelihood of it being created on the fly.

The sound is old, even if the music is new, and Jean can hear the German and Polish influence that stole away well awaited time from him and his brothers over the last eight weeks. He begrudges them nothing, and instead savors the music they brought back from their trip abroad. Jean could think of nothing good they didn’t deserve in this world, and if anything an opportunity for closure was something very much needed.

As for now, they’ve waited long enough. Stepping off the curb and into the haloed lamplight of the empty street, Jean tries to keep himself from running, but is only minimally successful.

Eren follows closely, while Jean is half-jogging at this point. He’s aiming for the several people splayed out on the lawn of an old Dutch Colonial he’s only had the luxury of visiting a few times. For Eren, it’s been a few years since he’s seen the two people Jean is running toward, and he can’t claim to recognize the third.

Jean interrupts them with a hearty yell, declaring that he could hear them a mile away and  _just fucking knew it._

“Reiner Braun!”

“Jeanbo—you cocksure sonofabitch!” Within seconds, Reiner pulls Jean into a strong, one-armed hug, his suntanned skin offset by a large, toothy grin and a shock of blond, military-cut hair.

Eren stands beside them, exchanging handshakes and pleasantries with the one he knows is Bertholt. He’s as tall and demure as ever, though Eren thinks he exudes an energy far brighter than he last remembered. Eren grips him at the shoulder, authentic in the way he says it’s good to see him again.

Eren wastes no time before extending a hand to the guy standing beside Bertholt, who seems content in taking a step back while Jean shares this moment with his brothers. Tall and broad—though not nearly as muscled as Reiner—their third man quickly accepts Eren’s handshake with a smile, shifting a set of fluorescent green drum sticks into his left hand.

Minutes fly by wherein Jean learns that Bertholt and Reiner’s trip had truly gone well; that it hadn’t just been an easy thing to say over e-mails or the phone. To see that assurance on their faces is an immense relief, and Jean wants to hear everything.

They’d walked dusty roads of towns where they might have once had history. Spoken to people whose names they may have better known under different circumstances.

Questions had been answered. Words exchanged and feelings made known.

Where Bertholt had intentions of fleshing out the details, piecing together more of the puzzle, Reiner had found himself content enough to come back no longer angry. He’d told Susan and Jakob as much that afternoon, promising to expand on that sentiment while making an appearance at home the following morning.

No one teases Jean for the fact that he’d refused to hold off, and Reiner in fact pokes Jean in the ribs, glad to see that apparently he couldn’t wait to see them. Reiner also takes his opportunity to complain that Jean and Eren could have used the house in their absence. Maybe helped it to not smell like must and dead matter while most everyone was away.

“Seriously, man.” Reiner presses. “This house is too big for just one person. With Bertl and me gone forever, and this guy doing whatever he does up north half the summer? Probably could use a dusting in there.”

Jean smiles toward his brothers’ housemate, getting a smile and raised brow in return.

At some point, Jean starts multitasking. He pulls the French horn from Reiner’s hands, playing with its keys, coaxing a melody or two out of it while he and Reiner continue to shoot the bull. He also makes a valiant attempt at carrying on his and Reiner’s conversation while struggling to eavesdrop on Eren’s.

Jean’s officially interested in the weather in Jinae; listens as Eren is asking his new friend what exactly there is to do so far north in the summertime.

Unfortunately, none of this is for Jean to know. Try as he might, Reiner’s booming laughter snaps him away when Jean informs him that yes, he's actually going ahead with a Master’s in chemistry.

Jean is half-interested in this topic at best, doing his damnedest not to provide blasé answers to questions Reiner probably already has the answers to. He nods, humming half-heartedly as Reiner keeps going, and at this point Jean is positive that Reiner knows exactly what he’s doing.

Jean only feels slightly guilty that he’s not even looking at Reiner, anymore.

Not content with distracted, second-hand listening, Jean attempts to edge in on the other conversation. He looks on as Eren continues to chat so easily, and further extends his ear once Bertl also gets pulled into the conversation, filling in the small voids that still exist between Eren and his new acquaintance.

Jean watches with rapt curiosity as lightly freckled knuckles run across the bridge of an equally dappled nose. The hand gives a short pause in motion to listen as Bertholt seems to make some sort of amusing interjection, only to repeat the motion once more.

_Still doing the nose thing, huh. Still cute._

Finally, Jean takes one step toward the three of them, only to find himself being pulled back in by Reiner. They’re not done talking, apparently, as Reiner wants details about a future that Jean honestly doesn’t even have to provide.

“Hey.” An apologetic hand grips at Reiner’s bicep while also pulling him off to the side. “Rein. You can have it in blood that we’ll go all night about whatever’s going on with school. But I haven’t actually said hi to anyone else, yet.”

Reiner’s eyes brighten at this, and somehow his smile just seems loud.

“Yeah, yeah.” He drawls, as he claps a hand onto his Jean’s shoulder. “You didn’t bother dropping in while we were gone?”

“Yeah, no. Sounds kind of random and awkward without you guys here. Plus, Dad’s been working my ass into the ground.” It’s an excuse at best, and both of them know it. “You know he actually pulled some guy off the job the other day?”

Reiner can’t help but grin. It wouldn’t have been the first time. It’s been a few summers since he’s worked beside Jakob, though he remembers them all fondly. “Fuck dude, I’m tired just thinking about it. What was it this time?”  
  
“Hiding from tasks. Hiding and smoking in a portable toilet?”

It’s enough to render him speechless, and the look across Reiner’s face is all Jean needs to break down in laughter. “Yeah. That’s basically what Dad thought about it. Gave the hours to Eren, instead.”

“Not you?”

Jean shook his head slowly at the prospect of more work. “I’m already pushing past eighty hours a week as it is.”

“How’re you not dead on your feet?”

Jean raises one brow. “Who says I’m not?”

“Fair enough.” Reiner throws an arm around his little brother’s shoulders, moves them toward the rest of the conversation across the lawn. “Alright. Let’s go.”

They’re a semi-circle now; accidental kinsmen and musical instruments, with an entire night ahead of them and nowhere else to go.

Jean doesn’t need Reiner to awkwardly reintroduce them. Doesn’t need some thinly veiled excuse to make small talk after months of having not spoken to this person he’s spent years wondering how it would be to better know.

It’s been simpler than that since the very beginning. An acquaintanceship free of false pretenses or superficial intentions. It used to be that Jean preferred it that way.

Used to.

Reiner still has an arm around his brother when he extends the other; reaching for the body next to him, and seizing his opportunity to make up for monopolizing Jean’s time. As if it were something Jean hadn’t been more than willing to give.

It’s the thought that counts, however, when he finds himself beaten to the punchline.

“Hey Marco.” Jean’s smooth voice cuts Reiner off before his open mouth can even make a sound. Reiner’s forced to take a swift step back as Jean’s eager, open hand shoots in front of his chest. “How’ve you been?”


	2. A Candle's Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer is coming to a close, and with it come old living situations in new places.
> 
> Jean and Eren settle into their new apartment with help from friends and family, while Jean fans the embers of years old feelings he's quietly harbored for Marco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to give a shout out to [Pilindiel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pilindiel/pseuds/pilindiel), without whose company and encouragement I'm pretty sure this wouldn't have been so thoroughly written. I'm pretty sure I've only ever had one story whose progression came so naturally, and that was years ago. <3

_If I had known_  
_That to carry on that weight_  
_It wouldn't show_  
_In the creases on your face_  
\--A Candle's Fire, by [Beirut](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jqtDIeJW0ss)

 

Their days of vacation come and go in a blur, though not before finding time to indulge in new and old friends, alike.

Eren and Jean move into their small but sufficient second-floor walkup, content that what it lacks in size it makes up for in location. Sitting only a few blocks off campus, Jean’s old Corolla seldom sees any mileage throughout the week; a far cry from its time in Ohio.

The entire move makes for short work with help from Reiner, Bertholt and Marco. At some point a bargain is made between the five of them that if Jean and Reiner agree to cook Real Food, the rest of them will tend to whatever is left to lift, put away, or rearrange.

Come evening, they find themselves sitting upon couch or floor, gorging on what Reiner had referred to as fettuccine with ovoli mushrooms, parmesan cheese and white truffle.

“Damn this is high end.” Eren moans. “How come you never cook like this for me, Jean?”

“Cause white truffles are only in season twice a year.” He explains around a mouthful of pasta. “I’ve got too much on my mind in August, and I’m usually broke by May.”

“This is a good August, then.” Eren decides. “It’s not often I get to eat five-star food from a paper plate.”

Marco nods and laughs at this. “I should’ve gone back to the house real quick. This would’ve paired nicely with red wine in plastic cups.”

“Too little, too late.” Reiner decides, grabbing empty plates as he stands up. “How about we cook over here every now and then, and you guys come to the house for the occasional jam session?”

Everyone nods in agreement at this arrangement, hoping such occasions don’t end up few and far between. It’s no matter, Jean imagines, as he doesn’t even remember the last time his trumpet was ever too far away from his grasp. What’s more, is Jean knows his current company to essentially be the same.

Jean figures he won’t be spending the bulk of his time in his own apartment, anyway. He’s always been one to wander from one place to the next. If not holed up in either a laboratory or a lecture hall, then likely wandering campus or elsewhere.

Now, living so close to home and without a job for the first time in years, Jean is plenty cognizant of the fact that he’s got family and friends living no more than a mile away.

The Old Dutch Colonial, as they’ve come to call it, provides all kinds of respite to its three inhabitants and their guests. It’s a four bedroom home, giving each of them ample privacy to do as they please. Century-old radiators hiss pleasantly throughout the house in the winter, warming the living room where Bertholt often papers the original hardwood floors with various documents and required texts for his Master’s in social work.

A large, round oak dining set dominates the center of the kitchen, and has easily become the heart of the house. A domestic thing if there ever was one, it had spent its previous life in the Kirschstein’s first house. It had eventually moved to what Jean’s mother affectionately referred to as their forever home, only to be replaced by an updated table shortly thereafter. Reiner had wasted no time in plucking it out of storage for the home they kept now, and had no intention of moving anywhere else without it.

The basement provides a certain kind of sanctuary for the Old Dutch Colonial. A wide open floor plan, it’s where Marco keeps his personal drum set; the gorgeous, clear acrylic Crush kit he’d received as a graduation gift from his parents.

An array of instruments are kept in a basement storage room, all of which the lot of them choose to share with one another. Built-in shelves house sheet music and texts from Marco’s days in undergrad, while a comfortable, dilapidated couch and matching chair make the space feel inviting and livable.

Bertholt had found the set, and while his housemates put their full trust in his discretion in furniture, not everyone had been amused at his refusal to say from where it came.

_“You get what you get, and don’t throw a fit.”_

_“Honestly Bertl how disgusting are you.”_

_“Honestly Reiner settle down.”_

Perhaps most fortunate of all is that the basement had been sound-proofed to the outside world, allowing its tenants to indulge in everything from serious practice, to shamefully obnoxious jam sessions when their schedules allow.

The five of them first gather one stuffy night, instruments and fast food littered across the basement as they get the last of the summer out of their system.

Eren proves a comfortable fit, his ability to transition from laid back to high voltage suiting both Bertholt and Reiner perfectly. The fast-paced guitar Eren is accustomed to is a natural complement to the pre-set style in which Bertholt, Reiner and Jean play. To top it all off, Eren’s baritone is a pleasant fit between Reiner’s bass and Jean’s tenor.

It had been no understatement when Bertholt and Reiner had promised Marco’s talent as a percussionist. This is nothing new to Jean, who’d been privy to Marco’s playing from as early on as the day he and Marco first met.

Marco’s undergrad had been complimented by several well-earned scholarships, most of which were inspired by, but not limited to his musicianship. His instrumental proficiency came as no surprise to anybody, though his passion for the drums, as anyone inside the MSU music department could attest, was truly something.

Jean has no difficulty recalling the subconscious habit Marco has of biting his lips while he drums. Or the way he could be deep into the roots of a song, and still somehow notice when someone new had walked in to hear him play.

His first glimpse of Marco had been during one of those fortunate little breaks during Jean’s Freshman year, when he could still find enough time to drive home for something other than a holiday. Reiner had insisted on grabbing up his dorm mate before they went for dinner, and had unceremoniously dragged Jean to the music facilities on campus.

Jean had liked the look of Marco then as much as he did now. All freckles and chestnut cowlicks. The way his tongue peeked from the corner of his mouth when he laughed, and the curious way Marco’s smile never fully met his eyes. More than once Jean had caught himself wondering what it would take to get Reiner’s dorm mate to fully smile. He had a keen suspicion that when he did, Marco would have crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

Alas. It had seemed that Jean wasn’t meant to find out.

As life would have it, two years would pass by before Jean would see Marco again. He’d been relegated to nostalgic stories shared during summertime at home, and questions about his well-being around holiday dinner tables. Where Susan had been thrilled that at least one of her sons was getting along with his roommate, Jean found himself just as pleased. Even so, he kept the sentiment to himself.

So it had been until Jean received the call asking for his help over the precious hours of spring break during his Junior year. A deeper kind of trust had been established and friendships grown, and now his brothers and Marco were moving into a house together. Jean had agreed to help without question.

They had secured the Old Dutch Colonial from a music professor who favored Marco as a student, and had rented it out to the three of them for an amenable price. Rent had been agreeable enough to accommodate Reiner’s work as an in-school pharm technician. Suitable for Bertholt’s modest income while pursuing his advanced social work degree. For Marco’s part, he made enough money off of private music instruction to please a single grad student’s meager needs.

With Jean’s help, they had moved out of their stuffy campus apartment with general ease. For three young men shooting toward their chosen life trajectories, the house was more than perfect. At a point where each of them had adhered well to one another, but still sought space and privacy, the Old Dutch Colonial had been nothing less than kismet.

Jean had stayed the week in the spare bedroom, carving out a space for himself amid unpacked boxes and various odds and ends. Upon his leaving, the room would promptly turn into storage for items that would have otherwise been relegated to the garage they were lacking. No one regretted that the basement had been otherwise repurposed to suit their musical needs.

Perhaps it was the enormity of Marco’s workload, Jean had wondered, that had caused Marco to look altogether different during that weeklong visit.

Jean had studied Marco’s face discreetly, carefully, having his doubts that Marco had become fatigued from the move alone. He’d taken note of the way Marco would lower himself across the living room couch each night, quietly splaying across the cushions as the lot of them found compromise between the shows they would watch and the food they’d eat.

He’d asked Marco once, right before the two of them were about to lift the older couch into the house, if everything was okay. Marco had insisted nothing much had changed since the last time Jean had seen him. Even so, Jean had listened to the softened, too polite way in which Marco answered, only to find himself not sold.

Jean had simply nodded, obliging Marco’s three-count as together they lifted the old ratty couch and made their way up the old porch stairs.

Now, two years later, Jean lays stretched across that same couch, making a concerted effort to pay attention to something other than how Marco’s strong, lightly freckled hands brush, hit and tap out cadences against his own body. Jean finds himself further invested in Marco on this night in the basement, where he reconfirms that Marco’s ear is a discriminating musical asset. Where he realizes once again that Marco’s company is an actual joy.

Hours pass by, and Jean leans back against the old sofa, watching Marco fiddle with his drum key and tension rods. There’s a pleasant feeling forming in his chest, and he’s content to observe what he hopes will turn into the new normal. Jean wears his trumpet as if it were an extension of his person, his fingers perpetually warming time-worn brass valves. The horn rests casually against his shoulder, waiting patiently for Jean to lend his breath to its own voice.

What once served as an outlet from nervous adolescent energy, has since instituted itself as a piece of who Jean is. In music he finds endless opportunities to confess himself without consequence, oftentimes at a moment’s notice. Tonight is no exception as he silently taps out the notes that make up a favorite of his. It’s a song that he’s overplayed with Bertholt and Reiner over the years, though right now only he can hear.

“Do you ever stop?” Reiner teases him. Occupying the old battered recliner, he’s using the sleeve of his sweatshirt to polish the body of his saxophone. “I see you air-playing over there.”

Jean only smiles and looks toward the concrete floor they’d made more comfortable by covering in old rugs. “Can’t stop, won’t stop, yeah?”

“It’ll be nice having you in the lab.” Reiner tells him, knowing Jean is aware that his study of pharmacy sees Reiner in the chemistry lab often. “But I’m still surprised you never wanted to be a music major.”

“Nah.” Jean replies easily, more than content with the decisions he’s made. He smiles serenely while tilting his trumpet forward. “I’m keeping this for myself.”

It’s a testament to the enormity of Jean’s crush that he immediately feels it when Marco’s eyes train on him. It’s a chore to not read into what appears to be a look of light disappointment as Marcos eyes flicker toward him, training just as quickly back onto the instrument he’s moved onto cleaning. Jean tells himself it has nothing to do with the fact that he has little to no reason to wander inside the music department at MSU.

“Hey,” Jean reaches out, knuckles rapping at Bertholt’s shoulder, as he is in need of a distraction. “Are you going to be home this year for Christmas?”

“Yeah!” Bertholt is quick to respond, his mouth twisting in hesitant apology. “I didn’t mean for last year to turn out the way it did. It all came up so fast and I just—“

“Dude, it’s good.” Jean promises. Wrapping a hand around the neck of Bertholt’s guitar, he’s intent on ensuring his message is heard. “Everyone gets it. _No one_ was ever mad at you.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Jean’s lets go of the guitar now, in favor of his trumpet. “You going down to Ann Arbor was the first step in getting you to Poland over summer. _And_ you were able to reconnect with Annie.”

Bertholt’s face pinks at this, but he knows it’s the truth. He knows Jean is earnest, and that his family now is nothing like the one he lost. The family who despite what he’s since learned, Bertholt still misses.

In this new family there is room for everyone. Last names have as much to do with loyalty, as they do with heritage. No one is made to feel left alone or isolated for the choices they decide to make.

“The only thing you owe Mom and Dad,” Jean adds, “is an effort at being happy.”

“Also.” Reiner nods, picking up where Jean has left off. “Susan is going to kill you if she doesn’t get to meet Annie.”

 

 

**Last February**

He’d gone over it with his teachers. Spoken with the professor who ran the lab he worked in. Jean made all the necessary arrangements to take a week’s leave right as mid-terms were about to hit, all with no shortage of apologies written across his face.

Susan had called Jean the previous evening, requesting he try to Skype with Bertholt and Reiner to find out if they were really okay. To see whatever else they might presently need.

“They always talk to you, Jean.” She’d pressed. “In that way kids and their parents can’t necessarily do.”

_It’s fine_. His professors had assured him. _Go. Be with your family and schedule your exams for as soon as you get back._

“If it’s all the same to you I’m ready for the exam now, ma’am.”

Four times he’d said it, and four times Jean had aced his mid-terms. Tossing his school books, his trumpet case, and a backpack of clothes onto the front seat, Jean settled in for the four hour drive back home.

 

* * *

 

Harsh yellow light filters across the mass-printed pages of Jean’s physical chemistry coursework. Head bent low across his work, he gives a sigh of relief upon writing in the last line, finally allowing himself to be swept away by fatigue.

He’d been able to sort everything out. Tended to his own arrangements; factoring in the loss of pay for time out of the lab, and worked ahead until only a negligible amount of school work remained.

Jean doesn’t realize he’s nodded off until he hears the rustling of paper next to his head. He registers the soft thud of a textbook closing at the same time the pen is gently being pulled out of his hand. Jean squints when he looks up, only to be met by annoyed furrowed brows.

“Why aren’t you in Ohio?”

“I do what I want, asshole. I live here. Why aren’t you at the Old Dutch Colonial?”

“I live here, too, fuckface.”

“I know.” Jean lightens his tone now, making room as Reiner pulls another chair up to the desk. “Sometimes it’s better to be home.”

“Yeah.” Reiner’s head drops into his arms as he heaves a quavering sigh. “It really fucking is.”

A moment passes by while they share the desk in silence. Jean had picked it out when they’d first moved into the house. Still in middle school, Bertholt and Reiner had recently gone onto high school.

It’d been an easy choice, as the surface of the desk had been lengthy enough to accommodate Jean’s desktop, speakers, and any number of books he’d inevitably stack all over it. A tabletop music stand had always sat off to one side.

Reiner’d had more difficulty than his brothers in picking out furniture, and so he’d pointed to a desk identical to the one Jean had chosen. Bertholt and Jean had playfully ganged up on him, insisting no one else would divulge their choices in furniture until Reiner had chosen his.

It’d been overwhelming being allowed to choose a dresser for himself, and that had been only after selecting a bed no one else had ever slept in. Fifteen years old, and for Reiner it was the first of its kind.

Jean sat beside him now, at one of two matching desks, identical in posture as they cradled their heads.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Alright.”

“It doesn’t make sense.” Reiner’s voice came throaty and raw. “If they’d really wanted to find us, they didn’t need Bertholt to find Annie first. She shouldn’t have had to give them all the specifics.”

“No.” Jean drawled quietly. “But you’re twenty-four now, yeah? Maybe they were waiting for you.”

“And where the hell was I supposed to start?”

“I don’t know.”

Silence envelops them once again, the only sound that of the whistling wind outside. Downstairs a clock sounds off its broken chimes. It had belonged to their grandmother, and no one in their house is interested in having that unsyncopated music ever go away.

“I don’t know.”

 

* * *

 

Lemon-scented Pledge, a bucket of rags, and some window cleaner. It was all Jean required to provide the Old Dutch Colonial with a hint of their upbringing. A touch of their first home, where Reiner and Bertholt were presently choosing to remain.

For nearly an hour Jean made his way from one end of the house to the other, rubbing polish into the old oak dining table before moving onto the cabinets and eventually the stair rail. He worked quietly, efficiently getting the job done by lamplight. He’d cracked a window or two, letting in the stark winter air.

Wafting from the basement was a steady drumbeat. Something Marco had been onto since before Jean let himself in, and had yet to take a break from. It occurred to Jean, somewhere between washcloths and the dustpan how unlikely it was that Marco even realized he was there.

He continued on. Running a rag across base boards, listening to Marco play whatever he’d immersed himself in, until there came a point where Jean felt he couldn’t help himself anymore.

He was quiet while opening the basement door, his socked feet noiseless as he descended only halfway down the stairs, stopping only once Marco was in sight. Jean sat then, watching Marco in a sweat-drenched tee-shirt, imagining he must be able to play this particular piece—whatever it was—in his sleep. It wasn’t difficult for Jean to envision where it might do well with some accompaniment. A bass-line here, maybe a touch of synth there.

But then, Marco had it under control. He moved at a steady rhythm, keeping his own tempo before allowing it to drop out into a half-time beat that felt akin to introspection. After a few measures of indulgence, it was back to that upbeat pulse all over again. If Jean were watching and listening correctly, then this seemed to be Marco’s favorite part of the three-minute arrangement.

Within moments Marco became aware of his audience. He took finding Jean atop the stairs well in stride, granting his visitor a nod while finishing out the remainder of his song. Really, Jean seemed more surprised at being found than Marco did at being spied upon, and he smiled charitably as Jean’s cheeks glowed with a touch of red.

“Jean.” _Zhean._

“You’ve been playing this for an hour.” Jean muses.

“Yeah.” A sweet, sheepish grin, Marco’s finger wipes sweat from the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t know anyone else was home.”

“They’re not.” Jean declares easily while holding up the cleaning supplies still in one hand. “Thought I’d do something nice for a change.”  
  
“For a change?” Marco scoffs lightly, apparently knowing better than to accept Jean’s self-deprecation. As if he hasn’t lived with Reiner and Bertholt long enough to know better. As if he’s never interacted with Jean himself. “I can play something else, then?”

“No no! I like it. _You_ like it. Keep going.”

Marco nods appreciatively, though it doesn’t stop him from setting his drumsticks off to the side. “You ever listen to something, and you’ve heard it a million times before. But then this _one_ time you hear it, and it gets you. And then for a while this little piece of a song is all you’re able to hear.”

“Of course.” This is the sort of thing Jean’s life is comprised of. “But you still have to play the whole thing, or else that little piece isn’t near as gratifying.”

“ _Yes_.” It’s a subconscious movement when Marco grabs up his sticks again, absentmindedly twirling one across his fingers. He does it without thought or care, all of which leaves Jean feeling unabashedly charmed.

Above them the front door opens. Both Marco and Jean turn their attention to the top of the stairs, listening carefully to the easy footfalls overhead, taking note how they move directly for the second floor.

“Bertl’s home.” Marco nearly whispers.

Jean nods. “Probably exhausted.”

“Is Reiner okay?” The words tumble from Marco’s mouth, as if he’s afraid of pestering about matters he’s no business talking about. It’s clear in the way Marco censors his volume, though Jean also sees how easily Marco wears his apprehension and worry across his face.

“You aren’t caught up on all of this. Are you?”

Marco sighs, giving a slight shake of his head. “I don’t want to butt in where I’m not wanted.”

“Trust me, Marco. If you guys have been living together for _this_ long, nothing you do would ever be looked at as butting in. If there’s shit you don’t know, it’s because Reiner doesn’t wanna talk about it. And you’re actually quite wanted.”

Rubbing at his eyes, Jean suddenly feels just how tired he is, too. “He’ll be fine. Bertholt recently found this girl they used to know. Annie. Right?”

“Right.”

“He’s been looking for her for years. They got in touch back in fall, and last month he finally got to see her. She’s living in Ann Arbor.”

Marco gasps in amusement despite himself. “So she’s a Wolverine?”

Jean smiles brightly, glad for an opportunity to share some humor. “Bertl would love Annie regardless. But anyway. So now he and Reiner just got these letters in the mail, each with a huge check. _Out of nowhere_. Turns out they have living relatives in Europe that neither of them had any clue about. And apparently, for a while that’s where Annie’d been. She was the one who told the relatives that Hoover and Braun are their middle names now, and that _Kirschstein_ is their last name. And so they found them.”

“Damn.”

Jean nods. “I met my brothers when I was twelve, but they had an entire life before that. Even then, most of it wasn’t with their bio family. So.”

“I knew that much.” Marco says. “Obviously that stuff doesn’t come up often, but I kind of see it. Certain times of the year, you know? Bertl told me how they’d been in school when their apartment burned down.”

“Yeah. Kindergarten.” Jean watches Marco from above the place his hands rest across his nose. “One of our godparents is a lawyer. We just spent most of the day with him and our parents, going over every little thing this could mean. I mean, we’re adults now, so it doesn’t have to mean anything if they don’t want it to, I guess. But Reiner is pissed, and I think Bertholt wants to find out more.”

“When I got home the other day neither of them were here.” Marco lowers his voice as he tells Jean this, grateful to have someone else to talk to. The past several days have been comprised of him trying to figure out where this sensitive line is, and how he should walk on it. “Bertholt came home eventually, but he was alone. And all he said was that they’d gotten some news about family. At first I got worried thinking he was talking about _you_.”

Jean warms at this, giving a small laugh despite himself. “Nah. I’m fine. And I didn’t tell them I was coming.”

“Reiner didn’t come back until yesterday,” Marco continues, “and he was just so _pale_. And it’s crazy to see how differently he and Bertholt are handling this from each other.”

Jean makes a noise of acknowledgement. “That’s them, though. With Bertholt what you see is what you get. Reiner’s full of good intentions and false bravado. But my guess is he’s probably going to hang out at our parents’ house for another day or two.”

“Let me know if I can do anything to help.”

“Sounds like you do enough by just being you.” The words are softer than Jean intended. Softer than he feels is appropriate for an acquaintanceship that revolves around loved ones they have in common. For seeing each other once or twice a year. “I’m ah… Going to go clean some more, and say g’night to Bertl before going home.”

“Ohio?”

Jean shakes his head and gives a pleasant, tranquil smile. “No. Not yet. I’ll be around for another week or so.”

Marco nods, and some of the tension in his features eases. “I’ll see you then.”

“ ’kay. Sounds good.” Jean stands then, heading up the steps while giving a shake of the cleaner in his hand.

“Jean?”

“Hm?”

There’s nothing left to do but smile when Marco points a drumstick at him, face fixed with all the seriousness he can muster in a single raised brow. “Do not touch the bathrooms. Leave them for me.”

“Done.” That smile is going to kill Jean before this week is over. “G’night Marco.”

 

**Present Day**

The basement falls quiet for a moment when Eren takes up a stray guitar. Lazy, directionless strumming turns into a classic from where he sits on the stairs. It seems one of those automatic responses people are wont to give when they hear the opening chorus to Hallelujah, and this lot is no exception.

Eyes closed, Jean quietly hums along. Within moments Reiner chimes in, though he hums a slightly different rendition.

“Mm.” Jean notes. “You went with Rufus Wainwright.”

Reiner nods, warm and content from where he leans against the wall. “You went Jeff Buckley.”

“ _Always_ _Jeff Buckley._ ” Jean sighs.

Marco’s inquiry is soft, as if by speaking too loud he’d be impeding on Eren’s guitar. “So you like Jeff Buckley’s version better?”

“Not necessarily.” Jean answers, pausing for a moment of contemplation. Marco stares at him, watching the way Jean smiles at the threadbare rug beneath his feet. “I don’t even think they’re comparable, honestly. I just feel that version more, I guess.”

Bertholt chimes in, describing the song in such a way as to assume he’s thought about this before. “Rufus Wainwright sings it like he’s on the sidewalk right outside his lover’s window. Waiting for forgiveness.”

“Mhm.” Jean agrees. “Buckley’s is the opposite. It’s like a lamentation. He can’t stay, but he’s not happy about it. He’s shutting his lover’s door behind him.”

Eren keeps on strumming. From where Marco sits, Jean appears to still be thinking. He’d love to ask what else the song makes him feel. Get into what else is presently on Jean’s mind.

But, Marco can’t bring himself to make that query. Doesn’t feel he’s privy to such personal information, especially when Jean already seems to be sharing the kind of sentiments a person typically keeps close to his chest.

Honestly, Marco just wants to find out what it would take to prompt Jean to walk away from a lover’s door. Or whether he’s actually ever done so.

Alas.

Marco chooses to keep his questions to himself, enjoying Eren’s rendition of what they can all agree is an emotionally daunting classic, instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot to answer for here, I know. But I promise that in time it will all be addressed!


	3. Back to You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean importunes Reiner for more details about Marco as someone who actually has the privilege of living with him, therein revealing a bit about Marco, and more about these two as brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've made it this far, I cannot thank you enough for reading!
> 
> Also, the upcoming chapters are far more Marco-centric than this one, I promise. But just as much as I want to tell Jean and Marco's story here, I'd love for Reiner and Bertholt's stories to come through. I hope you enjoy that as much as I do. <3

_Wouldn't it be good if you could stay_  
_But I know you can't_  
_And I know you wouldn't anyway_

 _Oh I know you have to go_  
_Yes I know you have to go_  
_So why won't you take me_  
_With you_  
_Whoa_  
  
_I will wait as long as it_  
_Will take me to get back to you_  
\--Back to You, by [Coconut Records](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jZhRSWL0UnQ)

 

 

“Tell me about Marco.”

Sliding onto an empty stool, Jean leans in close enough that the safety goggles fastened to Reiner’s face nearly hit him in the nose. Eyeing the petri dish on the counter, its mysterious contents are enough to provide Jean the common sense to straighten back up, though the determination across his face remains. Reiner laughs under his breath, shakes his head and passes Jean goggles of his own, which he promptly fastens atop his forehead.

“Called it.” Reiner declares quietly while rotating the petri dish carefully.

“Fair enough. But seriously. You guys have been living together for a few years now.”

“Yeah, somewhere in there.” Reiner answers carefully as he hovers a loaded eye dropper above his petri dish. “Marco’s good folk.”

“So what’s his story?”

“No story, really.” Reiner drawls, paying close attention to the task at hand before scratching something into his notebook. He does so as much out of academic necessity, as he does to carefully choose his words.

“I took band as an elective all throughout undergrad, to help break up all the math and science. Marco double-majored in composition and music education. On top of him already being my dorm mate, that’s the other place I really got to know him. But you already knew that.”

“Yeah. I remember you talking about your roomie a lot. But I never got to meet him because Mom never let me in the dorms.” The side of Jean’s mouth pulls into a smile as he recalls rolled eyes and superficial arguments. “You and Bertholt didn’t room together that first year, but you got Marco and really liked him.”

“Yep. Poor Bertie got Thomas Wagner.” Reiner can’t help but laugh a little as he draws out the name. “Wagner’s a hot mess. Haven’t seen him since the end of Freshman year, and I can’t say I’m sorry about it. Bertholt ended up staying over in our dorm half the time. Marco got along really well with both of us, so we all went in and on a crummy little apartment after that.”

“Cool.” At this point, _cool_ is about all that Jean has got. Given Reiner’s answers, he feels as if he’s getting no more than a refresher of old information he’s long since known. He’d come to Reiner hoping for something different. For something a bit more.

“You’re holding out on me, Rein.” Jean pokes. “Tell me something else. Marco seems laid back enough. Kind of quiet, sometimes. What else is he like?” Jean fires off one inquiry after another, as Reiner knows he’s wont to do.

It’s not the first time Jean’s shown avid interest in another person, though Reiner notices that this particular infatuation has carried on the longest. That Jean had instantly began to crush on Marco was never a secret. It’d been apparent to his brothers from the first time Reiner had introduced him to Marco.

At least back then, he’d assumed Jean’s interest would eventually dissipate, as it typically did.

Alas.

It’d been apparent in the way Jean chose his actions more deliberately around Marco; being less likely to speak and more open to sit and listen. If Reiner remembers correctly, Jean had even held a door or two open for Marco until he’d caught Bertholt of all people giving him an amused stare.

Jean’s had the occasional relationship over the years. High school flirtations. Worthwhile acquaintances who turned into just a little bit more from time to time. A handful of crushes here and there. Whether Reiner had managed to meet them in person, waved hello during a Skype call, or heard about them in conversation, he was always certain that none of them had ever really been right for Jean.

No matter whether Jean had found himself amidst a casual thing, or wrapped up in someone with intentions for more, none of those relationships had ever compared to the intensity with which Jean asserts himself now, with Marco.

Reiner imagines Jean gets it from their mother. Susan has always possessed an innate talent for knowing where she sits with a person, sometimes from the moment she first lays eyes on them.

_If he knows, he knows._

“What is Marco like?” Reiner hums to himself, enjoying the impatience he seems to be teasing out of Jean. “You know… If you hadn’t been so insistent on being a fucking Buckeye for four years, you could’ve found out what Marco is like a whole lot sooner.”

“Yeah? Well who’s the asshole who never brought his housemate home for Christmas?”

“It’s not my fault he wants to go back up to the sticks in Jinae!”

“Dude. Your mother is _Susan Kirschstein_.” Jean speaks with his hands for emphasis. “It is a mystery to me that you never brought him home.”

“Oh, don’t worry. Marco’s met Susan.”

Jean huffs at this. “Of course he has. Does she know his favorite breakfast foods yet?”

Reiner shrugs and makes a noise indicating that he doesn’t know. “That’s up to you, dude. And to answer your question, Marco is nice to everybody, but he doesn’t think everybody is nice. Stupidly quick and smart. Insane on the drums, and kind of on the introspective side. Those are the first things that come to mind. I’d say he’s your type.”

“I don’t have a type.”

“Genuine is your type.”

Jean chews on this last part a bit, and knows Reiner isn’t wrong.

They’ve been friends since middle school, and family for nearly as long. A grade below them, Jean had met Bertholt and Reiner in band, where kids were grouped not by age, but by instruments.

With all three of them playing brass, it was only a matter of time before they began huddling before warm-ups, trading spirited insults and trying to figure out how to play their favorite songs with one another.

Jean had no thought for the threadbare sweaters Bertholt often wore. That Reiner was sweet, and occasionally goofy around Jean—and only Jean—never crossed his mind. He simply enjoyed being near them. With Reiner and Bertholt he put away his self-consciousness in favor of shared interests, and unfiltered laughter that Jean just couldn’t find with anyone else.

Always together, they formed their bonds over homework, jam sessions, and shooting the bull at Jean’s house. It was only a matter of time before Jean’s mother had fallen in love with them as well. Her mother’s intuition allowed Susan to see past the friendships her son had formed, to the intangible things these two boys seemed in desperate need of.

Susan Kirschstein’s curiosity had first been piqued when one evening she’d inquired of Jean his friends’ phone numbers, so that she might arrange a sleepover.

_“Here you go.” Jean eagerly handed his mother a creased piece of paper. Wrinkling her brow, she looked questioningly at her son._

_“Jeanbo, you only got one phone number.”_

_“Bert and Reiner live together.”_

_“With whose parents?”_

_“Neither.” Jean replied, sounding somewhat annoyed. He hadn’t been anticipating his mother’s interrogation, and worried now that this information might affect his ability to hang out with his friends. “They live with a bunch of other kids at a foster home.”_

_“Do you know how they ended up there?”_

_“I don’t know.” Susan shot him a glare as Jean raised his twelve year old voice, until his shoulders inevitably shrank back and he uncrinkled his nose. “They just don’t talk about it. But they’re my friends.”_

_Susan straightened up, reading over the only thing written on the torn piece of notebook paper, in a rushed scrawl of a young boy._

_“Alright, then.”_

Reiner had met and befriended Jean at thirteen, happy to simply have found someone who enjoyed Bertholt and himself as just two other kids. On the day that Jakob and Susan Kirschstein asked the two of them if they would become official members of the Kirschstein family, Reiner was fifteen.

Now, Reiner playfully pushes Jean’s buttons, neither deterring nor encouraging him where Marco is concerned. He is a firm believer in the notion that whatever is meant to be, will be, and trusts this mantra enough to see each of them through to the end of every day.

The only other time Jean had found himself so fervently interested in a person had been during undergrad, over a girl named Mikasa. Jean had come home that winter describing how he’d never seen anyone so matter-of-factly beautiful. How her empathy seemed to run parallel to her otherwise objective nature, all of which Jean found admirable.

Reiner’s only suggestion had been to take careful consideration of the fact that she happened to be Jean’s roommate’s sister. Having since met Eren, Reiner can’t even imagine how things might have gone had Jean pursued Mikasa Ackerman.

“You could always move in with us.” Reiner suggested. “There’s still that one room that’s basically a storage closet.”

“Mm, I don’t think so.” Jean slides Reiner’s notes closer to get a better idea of what’s happening in the petri dish, whose liquid has since changed color. “Eren and I have a pretty good setup right now. No reason to go messing with it.”

“Suit yourself. Eren can move in, too. You share with Marco, and Eren can take the storage room.”

“You’re an asshole.” Jean mumbled innocently while scooting the petri dish closer to him. “And I don’t have a type.”

“If you honestly want to know him better,” Reiner offered, confident and deliberate with his words. “I suggest getting real happy with the idea of being friends with Marco.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Jean mutters, taking the eye dropper out of Reiner’s hand. “What about you, though?”

“What about me?” Reiner asks, his voice level while he stares intently at his notes.

“You blew me off when were supposed to have Chinese food and studying last week.”

“And I apologized for it.” Reiner defends himself, albeit not with much conviction. “I went over to the animal sciences department, instead.”

It doesn’t correlate to Jean, who imagines it to be quite a leap from Reiner’s own study of pharmacy all the way to veterinary medicine.

“Taking up animal husbandry, are we?”

“I learned a thing or two while I was there.” Reiner drawls.

“It’s fine.” Jean allows, his voice pleasant and teasing. “You don’t have to tell me. But has Mom met whoever it is?”

Reiner hesitates at this, trying to decide how to answer. “Technically?”

He has even more of Jean’s attention now, whose eyebrow disappears into his safety goggles.

“She’s met them.” Reiner admits. “Just not recently.”

“And you’re not going to tell me anything.”

“Maybe later.” Reiner grins, more to himself. The only sound between them now is the quiet whisper of paper as Reiner turns to a new page inside his notebook.

 

 

**Autumn; Reiner and Bertholt’s last year of middle school**

Regardless of where Reiner finds himself, there is usually too much noise in the immediate background to even try reading a book, much less consider finishing one.

It is an inescapable fact of his life that there is always some kind of endless, haphazard interruption going on inside of the walls he’s been made to call home. Whether that be the defiant screams of the new kid, someone’s desperate request for help with homework, or the girls’ endless, idle banter. It seems there is always some kind of unwanted static trying to dominate Reiner’s ear.

Even so. Here he is now, laying haphazardly across the arm of an old, plush couch while Jean and Bertholt argue the individual merits of Princess Peach and Toad on the floor in front of him. The well-worn, threadbare corduroy sofa is quite possibly the most comfortable piece of furniture Reiner has ever had permission to lounge upon, and he’ll gladly sit through Jean and Bertl’s video game-induced arguments for that alone.

More than all of it, though, Reiner is grateful for Jean’s friendship. For the sincere return of interest he gets from both Jean and his parents.

He doesn’t quite care to address the fact that he and Bertholt now spend more time with the Kirschsteins than inside their court-appointed home. Or if the shift in this ratio is even legal. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t much care. They’re not hurting anybody by always being over here.

The decent people at 203 Rose Court provide children without guardians a residence that keeps them out of the weather and in school, but for the past year it’s been Susan and Jakob who’ve asked Bertholt and Reiner whether they have had enough to eat for the day. Finding out if their homework is done, and whether or not Bertholt’s been getting enough good sleep lately.

No one at Rose Court has ever bothered to do any of that.

Despite the fact that even at Jean’s house, Reiner seems unable to escape all of the noise, everything is just warmer here.

Now, closing the back cover of the book he’s just finished, Reiner takes leave of the Kirschstein’s living room, the sound of Mario Kart and playful bickering fading behind him. He makes his way toward the kitchen, where Susan Kirschstein is currently humming to herself beneath the clanging of pots and pans.

Whether it’s wise to do so or not, Reiner has come to love Susan in a manner he’d never expected himself to.

He stays quiet as he enters the kitchen, takes a seat at the large, round oak dining room table that takes up most of the room. It’s too big for a family of three, Reiner thinks, but he then he can also recall Jean saying something about his father’s business partner eating over often.

He remembers Jean complaining last Thanksgiving about how his dad would without a doubt challenge his oldest friend, now business partner, to game after game of Mario Kart while the guy’s husband would inevitably call their integrity as grown ass men into question. For Reiner, the only feeling that had been more prominent in that moment than bitterness, was the unsure warmth he’d felt when Jean had muttered that he’d wished that he and Bertholt had also been there.

Reiner and Bertl have been visiting for over a year at this point. Their first visit saw them in the middle of a small, cozy home, complete with worn in furniture and outdated wallpaper. Perhaps the only sign of the changing times were the several professional family portraits displayed across the walls.

For the past several months, the two of them have watched as the house where Jean had grown up began being pared down to only the essentials, as the Kirschsteins readied to move into a home they were having built just for them.

Nestled just out of town and ensconced by scenic Michigan farm country, Jakob’s own company was in charge of the project, ensuring that the new home would be tailored to Susan’s preferences. She often joked about how she’d let the old house’s décor fall to the wayside in favor of sinking time, money, and energy into this new home. What she referred to as the family’s forever home.

“One day I’m going to spoil grandchildren here.” She promised. Jean had just rolled his eyes, though he could not have claimed to have doubted her.

Planning to move at the end of the following month, all that remains now is the barest of furniture; beds and toiletries, suitcases of commonly worn clothes. The living room consists of little more than a couch, television and Playstation, though for reasons Reiner cannot fathom, last year’s family portrait is still hanging on the wall.

The old house is still home, after all, and if nothing else Susan will have some semblance of neatly parted a hair and the overdone smiles of her family on display.

She smiles now, having noticed that Reiner has entered the kitchen, having seated himself silently at the round oak table as he watches her work.

“Hey Mister Man.” She greets him, still half turned toward the stove, where she’s currently dumping herbs into a pot of boiling sauce. “What’s up?”

Reiner only shrugs, taking a moment to lean back, arms crossed he takes a look around the unusually empty room. Watching Susan feeling fully at home in her stripped down little kitchen.

“How come you left the picture hanging up?”

“What picture is that, dear?” She considers for a short moment. “Oh! The studio one?”

“Yeah.” _You know,_ _the only one left in the entire house_ , he wants to tease, before thinking better of it. Jean might have inherited his father’s looks, but he most definitely got Susan’s sharp, if not also selective wit.

Susan smiles and shrugs, “It’s the most recent, so I wanted to keep it up for now.”

“You really like having them taken.”

“I do.” She confirms, turning back toward the counter. Grabbing a cutting board and bowl full of vegetables, Susan takes two knives from a drawer before joining Reiner at the table.

“Why go out of the way for such fancy pictures, though?” Taking one of the knives, Reiner sets into chopping carrots in the way he knows Susan likes, all the while pressing further into his inquiry. “You could just have someone take a nice picture in the back yard or something. Why the whole nine yards?”

Contemplating how to answer, for a moment the only sound is vegetables being cut in tandem, wordlessly dumped into a bowl as Susan decides what to say.

“Okay.” She starts. “When you boys are listening to your jumpy music—“

“Ska.”

“Okay, yes. Ska. When you’re listening to it, what do you like better? Live version or album version?”

“It’s a mood thing, I guess. But if it’s one of my favorite songs, then I’m going to like it either way.”

“Right.” Susan agrees, as if Reiner has just made her point for her. “Family portraits are a lot like that. At least to me they are.”

Reiner implores her with his expression, now, not entirely sure of where Susan is going with all of this.

“So with your favorite song, you can play it every single day.” She explains. “It’s always going to be the same song, but every time you play, it’ll be a little bit raw or different. If that song is one of your favorites, you clean it up for the album version, right? Polish it, make it sound exactly the way you want the rest of the world to hear it, because that is _your_ song that you’ve put _your_ time and love into, and you’re so proud of it.”

The boy at the table is smiling now, and Susan beams at him for having gotten the idea.

“It’s the same way with the pictures.” Susan smiles. “I love Jean and Jakob for the wonderful, crazy, hard-working people they are. But at least once a year I like to scrub them up a bit for the sake of posterity.”

As soon as the words are out, it seems Susan is already yelling into the other room for Jean to watch his mouth. She winks at Reiner while accepting the muttered apology coming from the other room.

**One week later**

Sighing heavily, Reiner does his best to shove his earbuds as far as possible into his ears. If it’s going to by noisy as fuckall, he’d rather it be his preferred cacophony of drums and bass guitar, with a sturdy mashup of trombone and saxophone.

Sitting cross-legged across his bunk, he grabs a fistful of sweatshirt with which to polish his own saxophone. He might not be in a position to play at the moment, but Reiner still intends to treat his instrument with the same care he believes music has allotted to him. Outside interference be damned.

It takes Bertholt coming into the room, and hoisting himself halfway up the bunk to grab Reiner’s attention before he willingly removes the earbuds, albeit reluctantly.

“Jean wants to know if we want to come over for the weekend.”

“The whole weekend?” Reiner raises an eyebrow at this. As if Jean even needs to ask. “Like. Friday, Saturday, _and_ Sunday?”

Bertholt smiles and nods. “It’s already okay with Mrs. Freudenberg. Jean said after band practice his parents’ll just pick us all up.”

“Sweet!”

Bertholt nods once more while dismounting the side of the bunk bed. Reiner already has his earbuds back in when Bertholt turns around with one more message before he scrambles out the door.

“Oh! Jean’s mom wants us to each bring a nice pair of clothes?”

At this, Reiner feels his heart thud in his chest. “She does?”

“Mmhm.” Bertholt confirms. “Don’t know why, but whatever. Maybe they’ll take us somewhere nice for dinner.”

“Yeah.” Reiner agrees. “Maybe.”

With that, Bertholt is gone. Reiner stays still for a moment longer, his thoughts suddenly louder than the rest of the noise pulsing throughout the bedroom.

 

**Present Day**

The air conditioner is broken.

It’s a small nuisance at worst, though it does little to prevent Jean from staring at the old Victorian radiator, hanging onto a prayer for a swift end to this relentless summer. He’d take frosted over, drafty windows to an unreasonably warm sweatbox any day.

Sprawled alone on a bed much too big for just himself, Jean ignores the binders and textbooks taking up the length where another person might lay.

No. Don’t think about that. That would involve moving in the wrong direction. Away from the kind of distraction Jean currently craves. Further from the epiphany he’s been waiting to run into, that he so desperately needs.

It must be fate when Eren strolls past the bedroom door, a toothbrush lazily protruding from the side of his mouth.

“Hey Jeanbo.”

Fair enough. Eren will have to do.

“Don’t call me Jeanbo.”

It’s a lighthearted demand, completely lacking in aggression or ire, and truth be told Jean is more than fine with Eren leaning into his doorway.

They’ve come a long way since the inception of their friendship. A lifetime apart from the tireless, quick-mouthed eighteen year-olds they’d started out as. They’ve gone from perpetually impatient and opinionated, to carefully metered responses and loosened fists.

Unafraid to look one another in the eye with the harsh side of the truth when necessary.

“What do you want, Eren?”

“Nothing, really. Just noticed you’re still up.” Eren glances around Jean’s bedroom. Sparse in comparison to his own, which seems to contain most of his earthly possessions. Across the hall, Jean’s bedroom contains little more than a basic secondhand dresser, and king-sized mattress raised on pallets built by Jean’s own hand. His trumpet and school things rest atop the dresser, which occasionally doubles as Jean’s work space, though most days he finds better places for that sort of thing.

“I _have_ been wondering, though.” Eren trails off with this last thought.

“What’s up?”

“How is it Marco’s been living with your brothers for like four years now, and you’ve never once mentioned him to me? Like, by name. Marco’s really cool.”  
  
“Yep.” Somehow, Jean hadn’t seen this line of questioning coming from Eren, and he keeps his answer clipped. He should have known better. “He is.”

“ _Oh._ ” And there it is.

“Nope.” He’s not in the mood for this. “No, Eren.”

“Damn, Jean!” Perhaps the most frustrating part of this, is that Eren is being sincere. His words are in no way teasing, and are in fact sympathetic in nature. “So how long’ve you been into him?”

Jean does not humor him with an answer, which he realizes too late is an answer in itself.

“But wait.” Eren presses. “So what about two years ago when you were with Liam? Even then?”

Jean sighs quietly. “We were in Ohio, and Marco was in Michigan. It should’ve been a non-issue.”

“And you broke up with Liam right after a trip home, didn’t you?”

Silence.

“And Ilse?”

“She’s sweet and deserved better than someone who wasn’t as into her as I should’ve been.”

“Dude. Jean.”

“ _What_.”

“So what’re you going to do now that you’re back?”

He takes a beat to respond, long enough that he risks Eren piping up all over again.

He’d tried. That’d been the best he could do, and damn if he hadn’t tried hard.

It was never Jean’s intention to date one person while truthfully wanting for another. He refused to think about what it said that time and distance had done nothing to take Marco entirely out of his mind.

Finally, the words spit out at the same moment Jean gives a pitiful shrug.

“I’m going to be his friend.”


	4. A Long Way Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean makes a pointed effort at getting to know Marco, and is rewarded for his efforts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the starting point for the story dealing with the issue of depression. If the discussion of mental illness is touchy for you, then I'd like to offer this as a trigger warning for you. I've written more regarding this at the end of the chapter, if you like.
> 
> I hope this message finds you well, and as always, thank you for reading!

_It took a lifetime with no cellmate_  
_To find the long way back_  
_Sandy, why can't we look the other way?_  
_You're weightless, you are exotic_  
_You need something for which to care_  
_Sandy, why can't we look the other way?_  
\--Evil, by [Interpol](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eqfiHfDmOnw)

 

By the calendar’s count, autumn has been on for a week and counting.

By Jean’s count there seems no end in sight to this unexpected heat wave, so insistent and out of character that it seems inspired by the furnaces of hell. The Indian summer is evidenced in the excessive green swathed all around campus. Still no sign of Michigan’s signature fall colors, loved by tourists and residents alike. The same overbearing, obtrusive humidity still lingers in the air.

Jean sees it in distant treelines as they waver from the heat. The too-subtle bursts of yellow and burgundy that come courtesy of the occasional defiant leaf.

Lesson plans and idle banter drift out of open windows, and the lazy buzz of cicadas as he walks across campus just seem to rub it in that summer refuses to be over.

With no plans or classes of his own until much later in the day, Jean has been strolling for a good ten minutes when he begins humming the lyrics to a song he’s not heard in years. It hardly seems unusual that the tune is now dominating the front of his mind, as that sort of thing just happens from time to time.

Another moment passes before Jean can actually make out the spontaneous source of inspiration, and it’s only then that he feels a tempo he’s recently become acquainted with drifting from one of several music buildings up ahead.

It’s increasingly obvious as Jean nears the music department. His answer excitingly clear as the sound of drums wafts through an open window. The music is consistent and familiar, rife with uninhibited energy. By the sound of it, Jean knows there’s only a single drummer playing. No additional percussionist, no string or wind accompanying the steady, flirtatious cadence that continues to draw Jean closer.

One song bleeds into another, and Jean’s become certain he recognizes the album they all belong to. He’s listened to it plenty in the past, one of any number of beloved albums he’d looped for weeks, possibly even months on end. Even so, he knows that without such flawless playing, his own ear doesn’t necessarily amount to much of anything.

So much more than before, Jean finds himself hoping that whomever is behind the drum set is completely alone.

It could be anyone, really. Michigan State has a sizable student population, so it seems almost unreasonable to imagine he knows who is playing on the other side of the door. The crux of the matter, Jean reminds himself, is that he simply knows who he’d like for it to be.

Still, Jean tells himself he can pinpoint that unexplainable, enigmatic sound for which are no words. It’s the sort belonging to a single seasoned musician, as unique as one’s fingerprint. They’ve spent enough time amongst one another, have learned the ins and outs of each other’s playing techniques. He’s certain of who it is, and without a second thought ventures closer.

Realistically, Jean is probably only able to identify his brothers from their musical idiosyncrasies, yet right now he’s still putting at least a little faith into his intuition.

Pulling open the door labeled Music Room Three, a willowy feeling sets off somewhere in Jean’s chest, his mouth curling into a small, arrogant smile as he gets his payoff. Sound spills out of the practice room, which houses any number of percussive instruments, including the drum kit that a pleasingly familiar face now sits behind.

“Marco Bodt.” The name is easy and reverent as it leave Jean’s lips. He’s so enthralled at having come across Marco, that he can’t even indulge in the fact that he’d been _right_.

Headphones sit firmly against Marco’s head, not for the noise cancellation it would be easy to assume, but to keep up with the music he’s feeding into his ears.

Settling against the wooden frame of the door, Jean is too busy observing the talent behind the drum kit to care that he too, has been noticed. Marco throws Jean an acknowledging smile before looking away from where his visitor is avidly tapping the melody out with his hands.

Thankfully, Jean’s presence doesn’t seem to give Marco any sort of pause, and he doesn’t stop playing until the conclusion of the song.

Jean claps his enthusiasm as Marco removes his headphones, who gives an obnoxious little bow for his efforts. Dismounting the drum kit, he leaves the small stage in favor of Jean, who remains planted in the doorway, hands now shoved unceremoniously in his pockets.

Now that the music has ended, Jean searches for words while realizing how infrequently he’s actually spent any time alone with Marco.

“You like Interpol.” It’s a statement, not a question. But for now it’s all that Jean has.

Marco’s playing had been the only thing necessary to plant the rest of the music into Jean’s head, and for that he remains impressed. It’s clear that the energy Marco had invested came not from sheet music, nor from sight-reading, but from pulling himself into oft-played songs until his ear and skill had sorted everything out for him.

“You could tell what it was?” Marco brightens at the recognition while offering a friendly shake of his hand. Jean returns the gesture with a non-committal grip, though Marco can’t help but notice how he lingers for a few seconds longer than he imaged anyone else might have.

“Couldn’t miss it.” Jean confirms. “I could hear you from a bit away. At first I thought I was just hearing it in my head.”

Marco grins at this. “I pretty much lived in the music department during undergrad. Ms. Brzenska lets me use empty rehearsal rooms if they’re not already booked. Interpol’s a favorite.”

Jean hums in acknowledgment, tucking away whatever small details about Marco he’s able to gather. Right now, the front of Jean’s mind is stuck on the fact that Marco did his undergraduate at State, not more than an hour from where Jean grew up. A year into graduate school, at this point means that Marco’s been here for five years.

For the first time ever, Jean feels a twinge of regret for having gone to school in Ohio before deciding to come home. He tries not to let this haunt him.

It’s no matter, he decides. They’re both here now; Marco moving to close down the rehearsal room while Jean waits patiently for him.

Jean watches closely as Marco scans the space around the drum kit; checking the area for anything he might have dropped. Taking his time to make sure each part of the set is in working order for the next person who comes in. Jean adds _attentive_ and _thorough_ to his growing list of adjectives that describe Marco, though really, it’s nowhere near enough.

“What’re you doing right now?” It’s the dominant thought on Jean’s mind, and he makes good on it before his nerves can rein it back. Staring forward, he refuses to overanalyze the outcome of his inquiry, putting his trust in his confidence that Marco will answer in his favor.

“Putting the room back the way I found it.”

“Ass.” Jean grins at Marco, who is currently wearing that smile where his tongue pokes from the side of his mouth. He badly wants to find out if Marco is always this facetious, or if it’s something he’s picked up from living so long with Reiner.

“How about after?” Jean implores.

“I have a few hours before I give lessons.”

“Come eat with me.” The words are out in a single breath, before Jean has time to overanalyze the situation. Before he has the time to turn a simple invitation into a stuttered appeal for Marco’s company.

“Yeah.” Marco agrees. He gives Jean a once-over while shoving his drumsticks into the side of his backpack. “Sounds nice.”

Within minutes Jean is walking alongside Marco, laughing at some random anecdote and asking where his favorite place is to eat.

 

* * *

 

“So what, you’re a mad scientist, then?”

Jean pretends that it doesn’t affect him so much to have Marco call him that. Tries to remain natural, despite the giggle caught in the back of Marco’s throat as he takes another swallow of his cheeseburger.

Jean knows he isn’t imagining the playful, if not subtle interest that dances within Marco’s voice, or how it causes him to light right up inside to hear Marco ask after him. Or take advantage of the opportunity to tease.

Jean’s never cared much for lying to other people, much less to himself, and so he decides to just go with it. He allows himself the unanticipated luxury of sitting satiated and relaxed in an old diner booth across from a man he is utterly compelled to know.

“If you say so.” Jean allows, extracting a pickle from his burger and examining it before popping it into his mouth. “I draw plants and molecules, and I can cook outrageous things that still end up delicious, because, hey. It’s chemistry.”

Marco hums in consideration. “But you could also say that not everything goes according to plan with chemistry.”

“Mm.” Jean concedes around a mouthful of soda and fries. “What’re you thinking of, exactly?”

“What about brain chemistry?”

“What about it?”

“You talk about chemistry as if everything were so neat and tidy. But if that were the case, then how do some people end up with depression or anxiety? Any number of mental illnesses, really.”

“Well,” Jean starts. It’s a valid question, he knows, and its answers are many. “I guess that depends on your approach. There’s an expectation that people have neurotransmitters delivering messages throughout their brain, right? A lack of which _could_ be responsible for something like depression. Which often gets called a chemical imbalance.”

Jean has Marco’s undivided attention while he talks, rattling off a meld of personal thoughts, hypotheses, and scientific explanations.

“And what do _you_ think?” Marco inquires.

“What do _I_ think?” Jean’s voice lilts at Marco’s intensity, but he can’t help but smile. “I think you’re asking an organic and bio-chemistry guy about the details of neurochemistry. But I also think there’s a lot more to it than that. The brain is like the ocean, man, we’ve only scratched the surface of it.”

It’s a humbling and satisfactory answer, Marco decides. Much better than he’s heard from any number of individuals in the past, who whether they knew it or not, usually found themselves turning Marco off with their various opinions on matters he cared about.

After taking a few moments too long in deciding how to respond, Marco loses his chance to speak as Jean continues on his scientific tirade.

“But also, Marco.” He continues while using a French fry as a pointer. “For as useful as neurochemistry is, it’s also hypothesis. Like I said, we don’t know hardly anything about our own brains. And it doesn’t necessarily account for other influences like brain structure or function, or even stressors. If you ask me, the real value in neurochemistry is the medical side. You take aspirin to alleviate a headache, but a lack of it isn’t the cause of headaches, you know?”

“That makes sense.” Marco starts asking himself if this is all coming off the top of Jean’s well educated head. If he’s managed to form his thoughts on the topic from his time within relevant textbooks, or if he’s speaking on the fly. Either way, Marco sighs internally as he admits to himself that he’d very much like to hear Jean speak some more.

“…so behavioral medicine doesn’t cure anxiety and depression, but it can help alleviate symptoms. And that’s why it’s important.”

It’s more information than either of them were bargaining for, and Marco simply nods before moving the food around on his plate.

“Sorry.” Jean mumbles, his cheeks dusted in a subtle red. “Ask me about certain things, and I get a bit too excited. But thanks for not checking out, or changing the subject or anything.”

“It’s fine.” Marco answers quietly. He’s still fixated on his plate, but the corner of his mouth bends upward before biting into another French fry. “Rambling must be your chemical imbalance.”

Jean smile back at him. _Marco is a smartass._ “At any rate, I never answered your original question.”

“Jean, I don’t even remember my original question.”

“You asked if not for teaching, then why I’ve got two bachelor’s in sciences and am now going after a master’s degree.”

“I did ask that…” Marco drawls, amused but also telling himself it’s time to quit flirting.

“The answer is, I don’t know.” Jean admits with a shrug. “I’m good at it. And this is what I like. After that I’m pretty directionless. I guess I lack some motivation.”

“Can’t always wait for motivation.” Marco presses.

“Fair enough.”

“I kind of think motivation is a myth, actually.”

It’s an interesting notion. Jean props an elbow on the table, rests his chin in his hand as he settles in to listen.

“How do you figure?” he asks.

“It’s like Big Foot, the Loch Ness Monster, or something.” Marco starts. “Some people swear by it, and that’s great, whatever. But what if you never get a chance to see it? What if you’re never overcome with a sense of motivation? If you sit around and wait for it you’ll accomplish nothing.”

Nodding, Jean can feel a small blush spread across his cheeks. It feels like every word that comes out of Marco’s mouth is another stroke of a shovel to dig Jean in deeper and deeper.

“I like that.” He tells Marco, his voice tinged with sincerity.

Marco shrugs and smiles. It’s no big thing. Just something he learned for himself a long time ago. He’s given very little time to feel modest, however, as apparently Jean has more questions for him.

Marco takes a long pull of his soda before confirming that yes, he’s actually driven a snowmobile to the grocery store before. It’s the first of several inquiries into what life is like deep in the Upper Peninsula.

Having been given Jean’s rapt attention, Marco doesn’t hesitate to keep talking, or to eventually answer why it is he honestly loves living, as Jean phrases it, _in the palm of the mitten_.

 

* * *

 

 

The commercial model for Sasha’s favorite hunting bow is called The Homewrecker. A gift from her daddy, Sasha’s rendition is custom made. A satisfying blend of practical and pretty, its already ergonomic design had been tailored for the reach of her limbs. Finished in an inimitable midnight blue, the only thing Sasha enjoys more than nocking arrows with it, is admiring it.

Homewrecker might be a suitable name for its sister bows, sitting on the shelf and going for retail, though Sasha’s inclined to think her bow should be called something better. Something understated, but still deadly.

She’d named it Elyse.

At the moment she sits warm and comfortable, cross-legged in her childhood bed. She’s only visiting for about a week, which in Sasha’s mind means that if she’s going to get any good hunting in, there isn’t a moment to waste.

It’s eight o’clock on a Sunday evening, and she plans to be up and going with the last of the darkness, running through the woods for her catch with the sun chasing at her heels.

Despite all of this, Sasha feels no hesitation while looking into her webcam. Doesn’t think twice before setting Elyse down.

“Marco, talk to me.”

He stares back through his own laptop cam, leveling Sasha with an emotional sobriety few people realize he’s capable of delivering. He wants to tell her not to stop on his account. To go on ahead, because nothing he has to say is so important she needs to stop restringing Elyse.

Alas. They both know exactly how such a conversation would go, and so Marco just spits it out, instead.

“What do you do when the person you’re interested in has people in common with you?”

“Oh, honey. Is this about Jean?”

“I didn’t say anything about Jean.”

“Marco, you don’t have to! Who else do you know down there important enough that you have people in common?”

Marco dodges the question, eyeballing his best friend while twirling a drumstick across his knuckles. He’d never once equated Jean with the notion of importance. At least, if it’s any better, he hasn’t been cognizant of doing it.

It isn’t any better. Nor is Sasha wrong.

And of course Sasha was going to know. Tired of humoring the less-than-generous ways he sometimes treated himself, that was partially the reason Marco had come to her.

It’s October now. The leaves have finally begun to change in mid-Michigan where Marco lives, and while the air smells like Heaven, it’s days like these that cause Marco to ache for Jinae all the more.

“I wanna bring him up north.” He tells her. Nothing Marco says comes across as longing or romantic, so much as it sounds like a dire confession. “Just to look at the colors with him or whatever. I don’t know.”

“Let’s back up a sec. Is there any chance that _this person_ might turn out to be another asshole?”

“That’s highly doubtful.”

“And you know this because…”

“Because I do.” Marco’s response comes sharper than he’d intended, and he quickly apologizes, though Sasha doesn’t so much as flinch at his tone. “It’s just that he’s everywhere. And I’ve gotten to know him. He’s always been the same guy I first met whenever he came around for visits, only each time it’s like he’s even better. And now he lives a mile away. He’s close with his brothers, so it makes sense that he’d be around, and that’s fine. He doesn’t try to take up my time is what I’m trying to say. He’s considerate.”

“Go on.”

“I don’t know, Sash. You want me to tell you about how he listens well, is a nice guy with good taste in music or cares too much, yada yada yada.”

“Are you seriously complaining about his good qualities?”

“No. It’s not that.” He assures her, and finally she gets a bit of laughter out of him. “He’s got layers, too. Honestly I think he’s got a temper if he let himself. My point is, I don’t want to fall for someone, Sash.”

“Fall for someone, eh?”

“You know when it’s all despite yourself, and it’s just totally out of your own fucking hands? I don’t want it. And I don’t want to disappoint him. Or make him feel like he needs to tip-toe around to appease me if I’m at a low point.”

“You’re getting pretty real over there, so I’m just going to start using his name now, ‘kay?” Sasha speaks softly, wishing Marco were nearby to properly hash out life and laze about with. “Sounds like you’re not giving Jean enough credit.”

 _Jean._ It sounds so different coming from anyone else’s mouth. Hearing it from Sasha gives it an air of reverence. Even then, this stems entirely from Marco’s emotional disposition. She says his name again, and Marco almost can’t deal with himself without becoming vastly annoyed, without finding himself in some way pathetic.

As it is, Marco hears Jean’s name often enough when it’s just himself. In some aspects, the name has become commonplace in all the wrong ways.

Woven through Marco’s day-to-day thoughts, as if Jean were a factor in the minutia of his everyday life. He isn’t, exactly, but isn’t he on his way to getting there?

A single syllable that carries enough weight to be an anchor for Marco’s fantasies. More than once Jean’s name has spilled unannounced from his own lips, causing him to remain planted on his back after the fact. It’s better than glancing sideways, where Marco can confirm that the rest of the bed is indeed empty and cold.

What’s more, is Marco knows it doesn’t have to be this way.

“Not giving him enough credit?” He repeats. “Probably not. But my other problem is that he’s Reiner and Bertholt’s brother.”

“So?”

“So the last thing I want is to mess up any of these friendships. They’ll stay close regardless of what happens to me. But what if it didn’t work out? Not only do I lose all three of them, but what sort of anger or guilt does that leave for Jean?”

“Again. You’re not giving everyone enough credit. Quit overanalyzing and tell me interesting things.”

“ _Fine_.” He’s grateful for Sasha, and for the way she steers them forward. “He’s started finding me around campus.”

“Yes! Tell me about _that_!”

“He likes to watch me drum. It’s possible that I’ve started waiting for him.” The light creeps back into Marco’s voice as he actually begins to speak about Jean, as opposed to the situational qualms he associates with becoming involved with Jean.

To be fair, they wouldn’t be here if this man were a topic Marco was only loathe to discuss. He’s never been one to humor negativity when he can help it, much less keep unsavory people around. He can’t deny that he’s also found a sense of unrivalled joy, or that all of this worry stems from the fear of losing it.

“Actually, we talk quite a lot. Jean talks a lot. But he listens well, too.”

“Nice.” A grin breaks out across Sasha’s face, her fingers moving quickly as she’s once again begun to restring her bow.

“It is.”

“Have you let him see you moody yet?”

“I have not.”

“C’mon, Marco.” Sasha chides, sitting up on her knees and leaning toward her webcam. “You’ve got two scenarios in front of you, here. Either your roommates have told Jean already, and he doesn’t care. Or he’s got no idea why you schlep off to your room and forget to eat from time to time.”

“I’m working on it.” He thinks back to the conversation they’d had a few weeks ago. It hadn’t been his intention to hit Jean with questions about science and depression, much less ask Jean his personal opinion on any of it. How refreshing it’d been to walk away from that discussion feeling encouraged, as opposed to trampled down or verbally beaten.

“Keep it up and he’s going to start thinking you’re a werewolf.”

“Could be worse.”

“Marcoooo.”

There’s a level of playfulness to the way she calls his name that makes Marco hesitate to answer.

“Yes?”

“Is he hot?”

“I’m not discussing this with you.”

“Send me a picture.” She gasps at her own genius. “Do you have any pictures of him?!”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“I have one picture that Reiner sent me, like, two years ago.”

“I want it.”

“Nope.”

He manages to distract her, importuning Sasha about her own love life. Or lack thereof. Where Marco had spent his early twenties meeting all the wrong people, Sasha had a knack for meeting the right ones at the wrong point in time.

She sighs hard enough to rustle the fringe across her forehead.

“I miss Pieck, Marco.” Her doe eyes fall to the floor, and his heart aches for her. “I don’t know. Growing up it was like no one could keep up with me. And now? Now they just keep leaving me.”

“Sash.” If there had been one drawback to leaving home, it’d been the distance from Sasha. It’d been fair at first, as she’d chosen a school in Wisconsin of all places. She’d returned close to Jinae upon graduation, establishing herself a career in community health. It’d been as good as a dream for Sasha when she’d been asked to run an archery camp during the summer months in her hometown, which was the primary reason for her visit.

“But the Peace Corps is a calling too, yeah?” It was Marco’s turn to try and provide reason. Maybe even a bit of solace, though he knew well enough that this relationship had cooled off quite some time ago. “And not necessarily forever. I bet Pieck misses you, too.”

“Yep. Enough to break it to me gently when she got engaged to some blonde foreign aid worker in Sierra Leonne.”

Marco cringes at that. “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh.’” A ping sounds off somewhere in the background, and Sasha’s attention turns offscreen. “Hang on, Marco.”

It tries his patience to wait as Sasha reaches for her phone, even if it’s only a few seconds. A piece of his heart lights up when he hears an obnoxious gasp that falls away into laughter.

“Ooh! No!” Sasha giggles.

If nothing else, Marco supposes he can do this.

“Marco!” If he closes his eyes while Sasha squeals, he can almost pretend they’re teenagers again. “Marco, is this him?”

Hundreds of miles away from one another, Marco and Sasha grin together over a photo of Jean. A black eye and mussed hair, a smile featuring a smear of blood across his teeth.

“There.” Affection coats Marco’s voice, though he isn’t entirely certain at the moment who it’s for. Both of them, really. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

“Marco he’s a _baby_!”

“He’s twenty-three.”

“A baby!”

“You’re twenty-four.”

“I don’t even want context for this picture.” Clutching her phone in one hand, Sasha holds the other out in a halting gesture. “Just let me imagine it on my own.”

“Someone insulted his brother at a frat party, and Jean called him out on it. Apparently Jean dared the guy to hit him.” Marco doesn’t even try to keep the mirth out of his voice at this point. “Reiner told him he’d never take him to another party after that, and so far he hasn’t.”

Sasha snorts. “Your Reiner sounds like an old man.”

“Yeah! He kind of is.”

“Jean sounds like a good guy. Feisty and loyal.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s hot, too.”

“Whatever.”

“Jean’s got impeccable taste.” She’s still looking at the photo while addressing him, her voice lilting and gentle. “You deserve only good things, Marco.”

 

* * *

**Some Years Ago, Jinae County High School**

 

A girl in the boys’ bathroom.

Standing between a school counselor and their homeroom teacher, that was precisely where Sasha was currently headed. It was most certainly not a position Sasha had ever imagined she would be in, yet here they all were. What’s more, is they had obliged her request to be the only one of them to go in.

Admittedly, she’d taken a second to just look around upon entering. A long row of toilet stalls, a few urinals, and pale blue tile as far as the eye could see. All in all, it was kind of disappointing.

Except for the boy huddled against one wall, knees tucked against his chest and his head in his arms. There was absolutely nothing disappointing about him.

“Marco.” Quiet as she was, her voice danced in a too loud echo across the tile walls. She tried again, this time quieter. “Marco, what’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“ _Marco_.”

“I mean it. _Nothing_ is going on.” Same as his words, his body is noticeably shaky. “And I still can’t figure out why I feel this way.”

“Feel what way?” Gentle fingers grip at his forearm. An attempt to comfort, or just be something steady. “What do you mean?”

Minutes pass by where neither of them say a word. It’s enough for her to feel Marco sink into her waiting shoulder, and so Sasha makes a point not to move.

He’s so much bigger than her now. Sixteen years old and Marco towers above her, yet he’s still only a shadow of the broad silhouette he’ll grow to be. Sasha smiles despite herself as childhood memories raise up like disturbed silt in her mind. Same soulful brown eyes. Same handsome face and unruly dark hair. The only thing she can’t do to Marco these days is tease about being taller than him.

Planting a kiss on the crown of his head, Sasha takes up Marco’s hand, ignores the way she does all the work to lace their fingers together.

“Okay.” She sighs. “We’ll just sit here.”

It’s been like this for some time now. Months of not knowing how to approach the only best friend she’s ever had, yet refusing to be pushed away. Where Marco had grown irritable in voice, at the same time she saw desperation in his eyes.

Days where they’d wordlessly trek from one class to another, Marco citing stomach pain for the lack of conversation.

_“Why don’t you go home?”_

_“And end up with more work tomorrow? What good will that do?”_

Where he’d once delighted in the bus rides home from football games and marching band competitions, Marco had begun taking out permission slips to drive himself to and from school events.

“School doesn’t stress me out. And band is great.” It’s impossible for him to put into words. The best Marco can do is list off all the blessings that somehow still aren’t enough. “And nothing bad happened when I came out of the closet last year.”

Nodding slowly, Sasha makes a noise of acknowledgement, pulls Marco’s hand into her lap as he continues to articulate one difficult truth after another.

They’d met one another during the bus ride home at the beginning of first grade. In their classroom Marco had been this bright, sweet new thing from a faraway city. A boy full of curiosity and freckles who made friends easily.

Save for Marco, no one else lived as far out of town as Sasha. As the seats on the bus began to vacate, he seized his opportunity to slide into the empty seat across from her.

_“I have gummy bears.”_

He had her attention. _“Do you have any red ones?”_

Fishing a crinkled ziplock bag out of his back pocket, they’d each extended a small hand across the aisle, delighting in Marco’s contraband.

 _“You can have all the red.”_ He’d offered, holding the bag open so she might better each inside. _“I like the green ones.”_

Sasha smiled wide, slipping a gummy bear through the gap where a missing front tooth had once been.

It’d been the two of them since.

“Everything in life has been going so good.” Marco spoke softer now, burying his face further into her neck. “So why do I feel like it wouldn’t be so terrible if one morning I just didn’t wake up anymore?”

Sasha sniffled, squeezing his hand a little harder, trying desperately to make up for her lack of words.

“You can’t go anywhere, Marco. I need you here.”

“I know.”

“And you know I won’t ever leave you alone. I can bug you until you’re sick of me being around. And until you start hating me. And I still won’t leave you alone.”

He scoffs at that. “I’ll never hate you.”

“I’ll never hate you, either.” Confused tears begin to stream down Sasha’s face, and she begins to hastily wipe them from her face. She doesn’t notice she’s missed a wayward tear until it’s dripped from her lashes and onto Marco’s nose, and the absurdity of it all is enough to evoke awkward laughter.

“Oh, Marco.” She sighs. “I’m sorry, honey.”

Relief ripples through her when she sees that despite himself, that Marco is wearing the slightest of smiles.

“You’re fine, Sash.” He whispers. “You’re good.”

In the same moment that Marco sits up, opening his mouth to say something, he’s interrupted by a gentle knock at the bathroom door.

“Marco?” Ms. Fritz, the guidance counselor of their small school, pops her head through the door. Her demeanor is easy and sympathetic enough that neither of her students are left feeling awkward. “Your parents are here. Sasha, your dad’s here, too.”

Panic flashes across Marco’s face, and before he realizes it Ms. Fritz is shaking her head while he repeatedly apologizes for himself. He hadn’t meant to draw attention, much less for their parents to leave work on his behalf.

“It’s fine, Marco.” She smiles. “We all have rough days. Go finish yours at home. Sasha can swing by your homeroom and pick up all your homework for you.”

Marco’s jaw locks at this, though he manages to politely nod. Ms. Fritz’s words feel hollow, and baseless at best. He responds far better to the tug from Sasha. Having pulled herself to her feet, she holds one of Marco’s hands while reaching out for the other. He says nothing while allowing her to pull him off the bathroom floor.

Ms. Fritz follows behind them, explaining that Marco is free to leave. His parents have already checked him out and are waiting just beyond the school’s front doors.

Everything feels loud and rushed around him to the point that Marco hardly notices when the bell rings, and students begin to pour out into the hallway around him. But then, it’s a rather significant comfort when none of his classmates notice him, either.

Sasha gives Marco one last hug before shoving him toward their parents, who are visible just beyond the school’s glass doors.

Promising to see him later, she watches as his back disappears into the crowd. Time feels of the essence as Sasha waves to her dad, as well as Marco’s mother and father before heading back toward the classroom.

She’d make sure Marco got all of his school work. Maybe offer to stick around and study with him later that night, hoping he wasn’t in the sort of mood where Mrs. Bodt had to tell her that Marco was sleeping the evening away.

No one notices Sasha when she heads straight for Mr. Tybur’s desk. They’re between classes at this point, and she smiles gratefully when he hands her two packets of school work. Marco’s is thicker, as someone has clipped a folder of print-outs and pamphlets to it.

She moves for Marco’s backpack next. It’s right where he’d left it at the start of class; sitting unopened on top of his desk, a pair of neon green drumsticks poking out of the side pocket.

The breath seems to be caught in Sasha’s throat at the sight of it, and she allows herself a moment to simply breathe. Finally able to collect herself, she gathers hers and Marco’s things, and heads out for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel the need to tell anyone reading that this story isn't trying to romanticize or criticize mental illness. While I do not personally have depression, several people very close to me do, and I think me writing this is partially a way of me trying to learn how to recognize this, and how to be a better friend and family member to those people.
> 
> One of my oldest headcanons for Marco is that he's someone who is clinically depressed. Having said that, while _Scenic World_ addresses Marco's depression, it isn't about his depression.
> 
> I've done a fair amount of research before moving ahead with this story. Talking to people dear to me, reading academic journals about mental illness, referring to blogs and articles written by people who cope with varying levels of depression all day every day, etc. The last thing I want to do here is misrepresent or glorify an issue that can be so harrowing and painful, and in writing Marco as a person with depression I'm striving to write a realistic and respectable portrayal of a person living with it.
> 
> And if you have any words or criticism or encouragement regarding how _Scenic World_ addresses this, I'm more than open to hearing it.  <3
> 
> Also, I'm pretty sure the next chapter will involve this story getting a bump up to an M rating, so there's that... >.>
> 
> Until then, take care! <3


	5. Don't Take the Money

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of each day always came too soon, but it was no matter. Whether he could feel it or not, Marco still knew life was good.
> 
> In short, Marco dealt with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Five! Ah!
> 
> This should have been posted quite some time ago. Alas. On top of me wanting to get this chapter right, life also seemed to have a few items for me to deal with along the way.
> 
> Enjoy, and thanks for reading!

_Somebody broke me once_  
_Love was a currency_  
_A shimmering balance act_  
_I think that I laughed at that_  
_And I saw your face and hands_  
_Colored in sun and then_  
_I think I understand_  
_Will I understand?_  
\--Don't Take the Money, by [Bleachers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PdRjwHQet_A)

 

It’s not that Marco falls in love easily. Far from it.

He had in fact sworn off the entire act of dating at some point during his undergrad years.

Several dates had left Marco cold with frustration. Occasionally, things had ended with good intentions intact, albeit with too great a distance existing between his and their wavelengths. Other times it had boiled down to a simple lack of chemistry.

More often than not, Marco would find himself tired of the selfish and flippant motivations of his peers. His last several prospects had ended in frustration, as his suitors tended to misconstrue him for an entirely different person. Expecting something different than what he gave them. Someone other than who he really was. Unable or unwilling to take him as is, or to even try and meet him anywhere remotely near the middle.

Marco would occasionally try to stay the course, usually out of goodwill but other times simply because it felt better than being alone.

It typically resulted in his date making some futile, obnoxious attempt at trying to shove him into some ill-conceived mold of who they believed he was. Who they decided he should be. Sometimes a recurring date would get comfortable enough to say the wrong thing about issues Marco cared too deeply about to ignore, therein further squelching his interest.

It just wasn’t worth it.

With that, Marco acquiesced his sense of self-preservation, and decided _to hell with dating._

It was no declaration of celibacy. No treatise against relationships, but a promise to consider himself _enough_. A reminder that he did not require the presence of any other individual in order to be whole.

This approach had served Marco fine and well for upwards of two years, leaving him free to excel at school and build an impressive clientele base in private music instruction. Free to enjoy the platonic company of his family and friends, and continue building a life exacted by his standards and no one else’s.

Initially, he’d even managed to withstand the allure he’d felt upon first meeting Jean.

As a Sophomore in college, Marco had taken one look at the kid accompanying his roommate; with his dirty blond hair, lithe frame and crooked smile, and known that like it or not Jean would inevitably pop up somewhere in Marco’s mind.

The adoptive brother Reiner had referred to as a _smart-aleck dipshit with a heart of gold_ , Jean had shown up with messy hair and crinkled clothes. He was the definite article of fatigue and happiness. Having just completed the four hour drive from Columbus on a whim, Jean had shrugged off the impromptu undertaking simply as an excuse to say hi.

Marco had already learned to take Reiner’s sporadically colorful language in stride, as it was typically a show of affection. In Jean’s case this couldn’t have been more accurate.

Marco had expected a brooding college Freshman, full of himself and knowing better than everyone else in the room. It was true that Jean held himself with a level of assurance that indicated he knew how good looking he was.

He also tended to get a certain spark in his eye that was usually followed by requests for more information. It wasn’t long before Marco realized Jean never really ran out of questions, and he’d quickly decided Jean was on the more generous side of curious. Intelligent. He wondered whether or not Jean knew this about himself, too. It was either that, Marco concluded, or Jean secretly felt he had a lot to make up for. He even suspected the answer might be both.

But no. Jean didn’t brood. For all the snark and energetic wit he encased himself in, there was no denying that Jean was authentic. An observant smart mouth. Eager to talk, yes, but not necessarily about himself. As it was, Jean’s first line of questioning was to find out what Bertholt and Reiner had been up to.

How were their second years at State going? Was it any different than being a Freshman? Any better? Had they decided on their majors, yet? When was the last time either of them had been home?

Jean had been just as eager to find out about how Marco was enjoying life without sleep as a fellow double-major. He shared his own love of music with Marco, regaled him with how he and his brothers had grown up in band at school. How they’d held summer practices for their school’s jazz band—separate from the regular band—at their parents’ property, which according to Jean, was fuckin’ huge.

He’d asked with vested interest how Marco was getting along so far from home.

_Pretty good, thanks,_ Marco had replied. Jinae, where he’d grown up, was more or less a myth to other Michiganders, as it was located so far up north. Of course he missed it, Marco had admitted, though he was happy to report that East Lansing was fast becoming his second home in its own right.

Jean had rightfully assumed that Marco had already visited Grand River’s decades-old record store, Flat Black & Circular. It was at this point that Jean had learned about Marco’s soft spot for 1950s rock and roll. Had watched Marco light up when mentioning how he’d once found a rare vinyl B-side for one of his favorites—Buddy Holly. Only been in retrospect did Marco feel that perhaps he’d allowed too much of his inner fanboy to shine through.

Jean had been appalled to learn that neither Reiner nor Bertholt had yet to take Marco to any of the local cider mills. He’d been even more remorseful for not being able to show Marco himself, what with the short visit he had.

The ease with which Jean asserted himself had made it easy for Marco to willingly divulge himself to Jean’s onslaught of questions.

Jean had an honest mouth and an incredibly sharp tongue. He’d demonstrated this in the straight-forward, yet strangely endearing way he’d insisted Reiner could quite kindly fuck off while Jean pressed forward with his and Marco’s conversation. He’d apologized to Marco for his language immediately after, which had earned Jean the whimsical, bell-like sound of Marco’s more genuine laughter.

All of it, Marco had decided, added to Jean’s unique, backward charm.

He’d only visited for a day.

Marco had pretended not to hear that morning, when Bertholt told Jean that Ohio had been _his_ choice, therefore he should try his best to like it there.

It was an opportunity for reinvention and fresh beginnings, and all of that. As someone who happened to like his life, thankyouverymuch, Jean had wasted no time in disputing his brother’s rhetoric.

“Then why did you choose an out-of-state school?” Bertholt had asked flatly.

Jean had answered in silence at first, wearing the look of someone believing he had something to prove.

He would try harder, Jean had promised. And hey, if he were lucky he’d end up liking his roommate, too.

It was understandable, Marco felt, while recalling the lengthy drive from Michigan State back to his sleepy, Upper Peninsula village of Jinae. He imagined for some people homesickness was an inevitability. Especially someone like Jean, whose world appeared to be filled with an abundance of encouragement and love from a seemingly small number of people.

Marco had given Jean a quick goodbye. A strong handshake and a smile promising it’d been good to meet him. Jean’s own handshake had been firm, and he’d allowed his fingers to slide the length of Marco’s hand as he let go.

With that Marco had turned around and left, giving the two brothers their privacy.

Heading back toward the building, Marco pretended not to hear the hushed sound of their embrace. He tried to ignore the telltale sound of a hand against someone’s back; steadfast and affectionate while Bertholt and Jean said their goodbyes.

Jean had hardly been around after that. At least in those early days.

In a way he was grateful for it. Jean’s absence helped to negate opportunities for Marco to indulge in the physical attributes and quirky charm that all came together to make Jean so very appealing.

There had been no need for Marco to remind himself that Jean was the brother of his housemates. Jean _would not_ , Marco insisted to himself, become an opportunity to drudge up long gone reminders of his pathetic track record with men. Marco refused to give himself that long since dead spiel about how _clearly_ , Jean could end up being different from the rest of them.

Jean was already different from the rest of them in that he was off limits.

His first time fantasizing about Jean had occurred the week they had made the Old Dutch Colonial their home. Jean had agreed to spend his spring break helping his brothers and Marco move, and had made the drive from Columbus in a heartbeat.

It’d been Marco’s first time seeing Jean in nearly two years. Getting reacquainted had required a bit of forced nonchalance on Marcos behalf. While he found Jean to be much the same in personality, physically he’d somehow managed to fill out with muscle that Marco was certain had not been there before.

Jean’s back and shoulders had broadened. His voice, still unique with his various salty-sweet inflections, had lowered an octave.

Moving week had been packed full of great food, even better people, cardboard boxes and furniture, and a level of fatigue Marco had not felt for quite some time. He could feel his moods changing. Energy waning, with little time or opportunity to do much about it.

Regardless of how he felt, Marco spent each day putting his best face on and doing everything he could think of to move forward.

He counted the myriad blessings right in front of him. The house he was moving into. The unique fortune to be living with the same friends he’d made at the start of college. The burgeoning career in his local music community. Jean visiting, and the utterly ridiculous and interesting ways in which he caused Marco to think or smile.

The end of each day always came too soon, but it was no matter. Whether he could feel it or not, Marco still knew life was good.

In short, Marco dealt with it.

Spring break had come and gone before any of them could really process it being over. Bertholt, Marco and Reiner were comfortably moved in to the Old Dutch Colonial. Jean was on his way back to Columbus, and the room he’d occupied for the week transformed into a glorified utility room.

Their days segued back into routine, and evenings became a little bit duller. A whole lot quieter.

Matters were not helped by the fact that Marco was no stranger to visits from insomnia; something he’d become accustomed to dealing with from time to time. Because of this he found no qualm, no shame in occasionally finding sleep at the hand of self-gratification.

None of that had prevented the frustration of solitary, sleepless evenings from turning anonymous hands into Jean’s in the dead of night.

Even so. It need never leave the sanctity of Marco’s mind.

Eyes the color of rosin and a lazy, uneven grin. Long fingers caressing the column of Marco’s throat, and hot breath against his ear.

At first Marco takes his hand away, hooded eyes flying open in recompense and apology. Even if Bertholt and Reiner were elsewhere, and Jean hundreds miles away.

But Marco was tired. So incredibly tired of being awake with nothing to listen to but his mind’s constant onslaught of criticisms and apathies. The dead feeling that refused him the right to sleep while elsewhere his friends and family rested before the upcoming day.

And so he takes Jean in the name of rest.

Takes Jean, who will never even know, and uses him in search of reprieve.

Sinking back into his pillows, Marco closes his eyes and sees Jean’s hands. Can almost feel them. Sweet and calloused, one tightly cradling Marco by the neck while the other wanders.

What would Jean be like in bed? Where exactly would Jean’s hand prefer?

_He’d be so good to have_ , Marco knows. Holding onto another deep breath before he spreads his legs, back arching and knees locking, Marco imagines what Jean tastes like. He hangs onto that same breath, as if it alone will keep this new secret. It helps him climb higher, this lungful of silence he keeps all to himself.

Marco stifles a moan as his vision goes white.

It’s never been quite like _this_ before, and he’s still riding the thrill of this almost unrecognizable euphoria, to the point Marco’s almost convinced the sound had come from Jean, pliant and needy over top of him, and not from his own throat.

It’s over, though. It takes only a moment for the pleasant tingling in Marco’s hands to dissipate, for his heartrate to return to normal, and for him to crash hard around the knowledge of what he’s just done.

Caught somewhere between the shame of relegating Jean to the same place as his guilty pleasures, and sorry faces of the past. The increasing acknowledgement of how nicely Jean fits there.

But not _there_ , exactly. Not with the rejects and unachievable fantasies. But what, then?

It’s been years without someone else. Up until now, Marco has been more than happy this way.

It’s nearly frightening, then, to realize he’s put Jean into a place of aspiration. Beyond a simple late night jerk-off, and into a category that by principle Marco had once promised never to put him. He must have developed feelings for Jean when he wasn’t looking, but it had taken one single indiscretion to truly know it.

That this has everything to do with wanting Jean, and knowing moreso than anything that Jean will never simply be someone else.

All he’d wanted was to sleep.

To find some innocent fodder by which to end another day. Turning on his side, Marco settles in and waits on the long hours that precede the rising of the sun.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Truly though, the problem with Jean started during those last days of summer, the moment he’d come crashing onto the Old Dutch Colonial’s front lawn.

The pleasantries had passed, and Marco had held his own while shaking Jean’s eager hand. Matching his intense gaze. He’d done just fine small-talking with Jean, given Eren a polite amount of attention, and done a well enough job of not getting too caught up once Jean began humming a tune that Marco couldn’t quite hear.

The real trouble had come when Jean had snatched up the French horn previously held by Reiner, putting the instrument to his lips to effectively make it sing. Marco had gone with it, drumming out a compatible rhythm against his chest and knees, nodding in agreement when Reiner encouraged the impromptu arrangement.

Before long the lot of them were playing by ear, all structured conversation falling away in favor of something more innate and musical.

Jean had led, the rest of them more than willing to follow.

Marco remembered that Jean and Eren had themselves been roommates now for several years. Had taken note of the way in which they sang with one another, testing the veracity of made up lyrics, and indulging in older, well-loved songs while jumping in time to their own rhythm.

At some point a happy fatigue had overcome them all. Falling onto the grass, they’d been reduced to five friends content to lay prone to the starry night, light-hearted banter exchanged on the lawn.

None of it had prevented Jean from continuing to sing, if only a secret melody or two, and only to himself. Still that same, unidentified song.

Well into autumn now, it was always that song.

Months had transpired since that night on the lawn.

Marco has since come to count Eren and Jean among his own friends, no longer requiring the pretense of Bertholt or Reiner in order to justify Jean being near.

It had been easy enough with Eren, as there was no emotional monopoly on him. Marco’s defenses had required far more time and resolution for Jean, who he constantly reminded himself first belonged to Bertholt and Reiner, and was not to be indulged in.

Some days it was difficult not to laugh when reminding himself of that.

It had taken time, and what seemed an unreasonable amount of perseverance on Jean’s behalf, for Marco to allow himself the joy he found in Jean’s company. It had even gotten to the point where Marco had convinced himself that at least part of Jean’s attention must have been made up. Surely Jean’s interests resided primarily in Marco’s own head.

Adamant refusal to read into the half-smile that often quirks the angles of Jean’s face. Nor would Marco acknowledge that regardless of where he might be, Jean never has trouble finding a seat nearby.

There is no logical reason why Marco should obsess after the string of notes Jean seems to frequently sing beneath his breath. Or the fact that in their several months of getting to know one another better, Jean has yet to make a move on him. Though he still seems to inch himself closer with every chance he finds.

Instead Marco ends up waiting for Jean to reveal more of the song, content that one day Jean might make known a little bit more of himself, too.

He could always ask. But then, Marco tells himself that this particular music isn’t _really_ meant for him.

It’s not that Marco falls in love easily. He doesn’t.

Even so, there is no negating that if Marco were to choose a single word to describe Jean’s singing voice, it would undoubtedly be _peace_. He doesn’t deny himself the perpetual curiosity that accompanies that one tune Jean doesn’t seem able to help but endlessly hum at and sing.

It’s become increasingly troublesome to keep himself an arm’s length away. Just far away enough to remain comfortable while enjoying the song he’s relegated to being a happy mystery is no longer enough.

And so Marco lives for the little things. Those around-the-house moments where he can catch that one tune dancing beneath Jean’s breathe.

How ironic, Marco thinks, for Jean of all people to teach him not to take life’s nuances for granted. With that, Marco seeks out whatever nonchalance there is to be had, and always remembers to savor the mundane.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Marco still has to pretend not to hear Jean’s conversations from time to time.

Just last week the lot of them had gathered at Jean and Eren’s apartment under the pretense of a night without studying. A belly full of New England clam chowder and the opportunity to laze about for a little while. The idea of a movie had been tossed around, to which Marco realized he doesn’t recall the last time he sat down for basic entertainment’s sake.

As promised, everything had been made from scratch by Jean, including the bread bowls that Eren had been recruited to assist him with.

Marco had parked himself on the sofa, across from Bertl. Sometimes the best company was the quietest company, and where Bertholt was concerned Marco never worried over discretion.

Indeed, Marco couldn’t have asked for an easier evening. There was nothing to it while strumming at Jean’s bass guitar, content to listen while Jean and Eren unknowingly provided amusing banter from the kitchen.

It had been Eren bringing up the notion of blind dates that had eventually caused Marco’s ears to truly stand at attention.

“No, man. Thanks, but no thanks.”

“C’mon Jean. Daz is alright. You’d have a good time!”

“I don’t want to have a good time.”

A long pause ensued, no doubt accompanied by an incredulous stare from Eren.

“Only you, dude. Only you would seriously say something like that. And mean it.”

“Whatever.” Jean had dismissed him. “Daz _is_ nice. I’ve already met him, remember? And so was Hannah, last year, thanks. I still don’t want to date either of them.”

“Whatever. Seriously, Jean.” Eren lowered his voice slightly. “What’re you waiting for?”

This time it was Jean’s turn to be silent.

“Nothing.” He finally answered. “Bread bowls are done.”

Jean had ended the conversation after that, declaring that food was on. A short while later they all found themselves occupying the various spaces the small living had to offer, steaming bread bowls of clam chowder in hand.

Reiner had made a satisfactory noise around a spoonful of chowder. “You outdid yourself here, Jeanbo.”

Jean nodded from his spot on the floor, his face hidden behind his bowl, where he smiled as Marco’s knee nudged him gently, deliberately, from where he still sat on the couch.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

He should have known better than to dim the lights. Or to agree for anyone else to throw the switch that would allow them to watch their movie in darkness. Jean can hear Reiner in his head now, chiding him for the way he inevitably falls asleep when the lights go out.

_“You’ve been doing it since our first overnight a million years ago, don’t tell me you won’t do it now.”_

It doesn’t matter, honestly. Marco had made room, granting Jean the end of the couch and in doing so providing him a safe place if he chose to fall asleep.

And damn if he hadn’t been tired lately. There wasn’t a person in this room who didn’t to some degree know how Jean felt about Marco, though not a single one of them could call him into question for his conduct.

A perfect gentleman (a perfect dork, Reiner might say).

A sincere friend (friend zones are shit, Bertholt would declare—he hated the term and how it discounted a person’s worth, and Jean knew it).

What no one else realized were the myriad contemplations that insisted on distracting Jean at all hours of the day. Where his lack of trajectory used to bother him, these days he could feel himself closer to a resolution than ever. Stretching his proverbial fingertips as far as his joints would let him go, _fuck,_ Jean was so close. Now it was just a matter of saying the words out loud. Doing the work that would get him there.

For now, though, Jean succumbs. Allows himself to fall asleep on the couch, waking only slightly when he feels himself being tilted away from the armrest to someplace infinitely more preferable.

Marco’s hand melds momentarily to Jean’s shoulder before hesitantly retracting onto the back of the couch. Jean can feel himself become disappointed; is certain he must be dreaming, and so he doesn’t think twice before nestling deeper into Marco’s side.

So much better now.

What a luxury to dream so vividly, to the point he can smell the rustic-sweet scent of Marco’s skin. He’s too tired, and this is too good to scold himself for recognizing with absolute certainty that he’s without a doubt with Marco.

He doesn’t dare ruin it all by opening his eyes. Doesn’t mind the way Marco’s weight readjusts, causing Jean’s hand to brace against Marco’s chest before he can fall forward. What would be worse, he wonders. Falling into Marco’s lap, or startling awake from one of those awful free-fall reveries?

Jean’s mind compensates for the disruption, rewarding him as Marco’s arm steadies him, providing a place for Jean’s head to rest on his shoulder. Not complaining when tired fingers take up the fabric of Marco’s sweatshirt.

The entirety of Jean’s dream is a quiet affair. Low volume action film explosions, discreet fingers at the nape of his neck, and familiar voices exchanging words here and there.

He wakes to screen credits and lamp light, his body shifting against the arm of his and Eren’s old couch. Someone has carefully draped a blanket over him, which is nice, considering Reiner is currently holding the front door wide open, letting in late night October air.

“Leaving, Jeanbo.”

He sits up the same moment that Bertholt pops his head back inside to wave goodnight, rubs the sleep out of his face and sighs.

“You should’ve thrown something at me.” He points accusingly at Reiner. “I didn’t need to pass out on an arm rest for two hours, man.”

Reiner stares at him; eyes wide, his grin wider.

“Is that what you thi—“

“Goodnight, Jean.” Marco appears from around the corner, grabbing his coat and standing beside Reiner. “Tonight was nice. Let someone else cook for you next time, hm?”

Jean stares at the two of them. Lucid. Mind and heart racing.

_What just.._. _Oh. Oh no_.

Reiner’s entire demeanor has changed, cognizant and empathetic, though Jean hardly has time to register this before Marco is turning Reiner around and pushing him out the door. He does, however, give Jean the courtesy of looking back to bid him good night.

“You too, Marco.” Jean is quick to sit up, and notices how the empty spot beside him is still warm. “G’night…”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It’s the quiet inception of what is about to become a recurring occasion. The kind meant for decompressing in certain company—company chosen for that intrinsic, exclusive feeling one provides the other.

They say nothing of it, deciding instead to just let things happen.

There’s something intimate about how easily Jean had succumbed to Marco holding him. Something below the surface of Marco’s skin that had emboldened him enough to reach out in the first place.

Whatever it is, for the moment it doesn’t quite matter. It doesn’t have to amount to anything more than one needy body humoring another while they both indulge in these unspoken elements of comfort.

These perpetually expanding, always growing elements of comfort that are also reserved just for the two of them.


	6. Hide Your Love Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco doesn’t think twice before reaching for the blanket draped across the back of the couch, throwing it over Jean in the same moment that something suffuses itself within his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the first brand new chapter I've posted in a year, lol. I hope you like it!

_How can I even try?_  
_I can never win_  
_Hearing them, seeing them_  
_In the state I'm in_  
_How could she say to me_  
_"Love will find a way?"_  
_Gather round all you clowns_  
_Let me hear you say_

_Hey, you've got to hide your love away_

\--You've Got to Hide Your Love Away, by [The Beatles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m3MrtLzDDho)

 

At first, it’d been easy enough for Jean to say no.

He could find little issue in turning down the simple, basic words found within the plain, black-lettered text.

But then he’d reminded himself of the sender.

Imagining the movement of that small dusting of freckles between thumb and forefinger while Marco sent his small flurry of texts. And just like that the notion of discipline and self-preservation went right out the window.

The first of Marco’s texts arrives sometime in the early afternoon. Jean’s just left his final lecture of the day, not feeling as if he’s come away with anything practical so much as he’s knee-deep in some academic hobby he’s no interest in anymore.

The moment Jean feels his phone vibrate is a moment of relief, as he’s in desperate need of an opportunity for distraction.

Except—

 **Marco 1:51 p.m.**  Come over later and watch stuff with me.

Jean isn’t done reeling over the fact that he’d apparently fallen asleep on Marco only a week beforehand. He’s still devoting too much time to convincing himself that he hadn’t latched onto Marco like a child’s comfort item, realizing only in retrospect that the solid weight beneath his fingers had actually been Marco’s chest.

Nor is he done grumbling to himself that neither of his brothers had felt obligated to wake him before he could make a fool of himself. No one seemed to think it a problem that Jean had spent an entire movie unconsciously importuning on a man far too kind to shove him back off to the side.

He’s still trying to forget the way he’d capitalized on Marco’s nearness, assuming it to have been a dream.

[Never.]

 **Marco 1:52 p.m.**  Come over?

[Sorry wrong number]

 **Marco 1:53 p.m.** I’ve got music documentaries

On the other hand, nor has Jean forgotten that Marco had accepted him in such close proximity. Hadn’t asked Bertholt to peel Jean off of him or if there was a best way to handle the situation. It was not lost on Jean that he’d been kept close, and the tension kneaded out of his neck. He’s trying to forget that he had been so certain that he’d fallen asleep facing away from Marco in the first place, because the idea of Marco pulling him near feels too fictional and idyllic to be real.

[What kind]

 **Marco 1:55 p.m.**  Irish drums or Apollo Theatre. Gotta watch both for school. You pick.

Jean sighs, dodging the intense glare of the sun playing off the face of his phone. He’s so far into his head that it almost comes as a surprise when he’s already made it to the crosswalk, mindlessly punching the pedestrian button he comes into contact with countless times every day.

_How did I even get here?_

[Is it tacky to ask u why?]

 **Marco 2:01 p.m.**  I like watching things with you.

_I like watching things with you, too._

[Irish drums]

 **Marco 2:03 p.m**. Awesome. See you later.

* * *

 

The sun is long since gone when Jean lets himself into the house that night; staring in mild disbelief while Marco sits in the corner of the couch, already taking notes on his laptop.

“You’re in my seat, Bodt.”

“I don’t see your name on it,  _Kirschstein._ ”

Stepping further into the living room, Jean enters while putting good faith on Reiner having not told Marco all about Jean’s childhood habit for inevitably falling asleep during family movie nights.

“That’s ‘cause your ass is sitting on it.”

“There’s an entire couch still available.” Marco is too busy transcribing the publication page of a music book to look up. “Have a seat, Jean.”

“I feel like I’ve been had.”

Jean receives a well-practiced, perfectly crafted smile for his troubles. He makes a point of frowning when Marco hands him one of two waiting beers.

“You’re a monster.”

“I know.” Marco agrees, flashing that smile once again. “Also, you picked the longer documentary. Three hours.”

Jean shrugs at that, cracking into his beer while taking the opposite side of the couch. Marco is studying him then, looking for God only knows what when Jean meets his eyes.

“S’okay.” He replies easily, meaning every word. “Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Marco answers with little more than a nod and extended silence. It’s his turn to be watched, and he hurries to finish with the book in front of him, eager to dim the lights and press  _play_.

* * *

 

As the night passes by Marco’s hands move of their own volition, quietly replicating cadences and songs throughout the documentary.

Jean watches with mirth, content to watch every swipe against the edge of the laptop, every tap to Marco’s knee while his eyes never leave the screen.

“I thought you were supposed to be taking notes.”

“More than one way to do so.”

So it goes as they continue on, and before either of them realize it they’re already an hour in. It’s good enough simply to exist like this. Absent-minded comfort without the obligation to think. Where any other night Jean might be inclined to throw in questions and commentary, tonight he’s content to just be. Leaves Marco to his own devices, and settles onto his side, head propped onto his hand on his end of the couch.

It is isn’t long before Jean starts to nod off; the haunting promises of a bodhran lulling him away. It’s accented in part by the tapping of laptop keys, in part by Marco’s own quiet contributions to the music. All Jean’s previous reservations fly out the window, and he’s nearly gone when he’s hit with a small epiphany—this history of falling asleep to the tv isn’t chronic. As much as Reiner or their father might like to tease, it isn’t guaranteed that he falls asleep with the basic loss of lamplight.

Rather, it’s a symptom of Jean feeling content. Safe and at ease.

Even with all of the complicated truths that come with it, Jean couldn’t help but think that maybe saying  _yes_  to Marco’s invitation was his true act of self-preservation.

Marco catches sight of Jean from the corner of his eye, grins at the accuracy of his prediction, and is inwardly happy for it.

He sets the laptop aside, closes down its glowing screen in favor of tapping out a few more beats of his own. He feels it when Jean resettles with the movement, awkwardly drawing into himself while trying to get comfortable.

The thrill is still there when Marco tugs at one socked foot, gently pulling Jean’s feet into his lap and providing the comfort he assumes Jean needs.

The excitement remains, and the nagging taunt of risk has gone on its way.

Marco doesn’t think twice before reaching for the blanket draped across the back of the couch, throwing it over Jean in the same moment that something suffuses itself within his chest.

He only considers the feeling for a moment, having already identified it quite some time ago. Tucking the edge of the blanket around his own lap, Marco sighs contentedly and turns his attention back toward the screen.

* * *

 

It’s become commonplace to find Jean standing in the kitchen of the Old Dutch Colonial, usually at what may seem to be odd hours of the day. He’s never been without reason, however, and so it is when Jean finds himself brewing a pot of coffee in his brothers’ kitchen early on a Saturday morning.

Marco has long since decided he enjoys this kind of whimsy. He finds Jean’s random presence an always pleasant surprise, with this morning being no exception.

And so Marco traipses blearily downs the stairs, the notion of coffee and other temptations leading him steadfast through the living room and into the kitchen.

Even Marco finds himself unprepared for the overly tired, tangled mass of dirty blond excuse of a human being he finds. That’s not to say the fatigued, unkempt aspect has much to do with it.

“Jean!”

Leaning against the counter, Jean nods. His face is partially obscured by the steam dissipating over the top of his mug. He sips continually while eyeing Marco over the top of a pair of rectangular frames that are effectively fogged by Jean’s drink; something Marco most certainly has never seen before.

“I… didn’t know you wore glasses.”

“That’s because most of the time I don’t.” Jean sniffles then, the arm wrapped around his chest forcing him deeper inside of an oversized sweatshirt. It’s only the first of several layers he’s wearing, though Marco can’t help but notice that he still seems so cold.

“My contacts decided to behave like little bitches this morning, and I was too tired to deal with them. So.” There’s a stark contrast between Jean’s usual bright hazel gaze, and the red-rimmed eyes he now trains on Marco.

Even so. His current state doesn’t prevent Jean from pouring Marco coffee, which he’s more than grateful to oblige. Marco listens intently as Jean talks through a barrage of congestion and sniffles, trying his damnedest to go over the details of his day.

He’s waiting on Bertholt to get his ass downstairs so they can get a move on. It’s a two hour drive to their destination—an horologist who’s promised he can restore a hundred year old clock without damaging it in the process.

It’s endearing to hear Jean like this. He has a penchant for prattling on at the best of times, and it seems he’ll be struck down before allowing a cold to stop him now. Jean only ceases to speak in order to savor his coffee, and to ask Marco after his own well-being.

He receives a slow nod for his inquiry, which seems to pique Jean’s interest all the more.

“ ‘m alright.” Marco tells him lightly. “It’s been okay lately.”

Sasha comes to mind. Details of confessions and questions he’d like to ask Jean wander through Marco’s thoughts, though neither is he considering voicing any of them. There’s something dancing on the tip of his tongue, however, which Jean appears to notice.

“Actually, Jean…” Marco starts, hardly able to believe himself.

It’s one of those moments where mind gets ahead of mouth, and before long unvoiced sentiments are about to be made known. He’s got the entirety of Jean’s attention, holding one another’s gaze with just enough volition that Marco braces himself to share something he feels should have been said quite some time ago.

“You look like shit.”

_Bertholt._

Jean raises his empty coffee cup in acknowledgment, his expression a touch soured as his brother comes to stand beside Marco.

“Thanks for the update, Captain Obvious.”

“Are you going to be cranky the entire ride?” Bertholt’s words are hard, but a smile sits at the corner of his mouth. Playing with the cuffs of his shirt, he discreetly gives Jean a onceover. “We can always go another day.”

“Nah.” Jean’s words are muted, only partially audible as he cleans his mug at the sink, speaking over his own congestion. “Not if we want the clock to be ready by Christmas.”

Bertholt nods in approval, grabbing his coat off the back of a kitchen chair.

There’s no good transition for this part of their exchange.

Five minutes with Jean at the start of a brand new day, when what Marco really wants is to go with him. Cancel everything he has going, and help Bertholt unload the enormous clock so Jean doesn’t have to. Ride in the back seat on the way home, while Jean undoubtedly would talk through his congestion about whatever he’s been reading. Perhaps if Marco asked, Jean might tell him more about the song he can’t help but hum so much of the time.

It’s impractical. Marco knows good and well that he’s the only one here harboring any notion of him being of use in this situation. He’s the only one fostering overly kind notions of grandeur, and that’s fine. It is what it is.

Thanking Jean for the coffee, Marco bids the two of them goodbye before moving toward the counter. It hadn’t been intentional when his hand had landed at the small of Jean’s back. An affectionate motion of appreciation, gentle in its desire that Jean would start to feel well again.

Unintentional and surprisingly natural, even more shocking when Jean leans into the touch without a second thought. With no real articulation as to where the two of them stand, Marco doesn’t blame Jean for the way he straightens up and quickens his step to be on his way.

It’s an almost awkward sound when the back door clicks shut behind Jean, and Marco pushes himself onto the next task.

Bubbles are dissipating across the sponge Jean had left on the backsplash. Picking it up, Marco takes a deep breath and tends to his own cup.

It’s a welcome silence, interrupted by less else than the hiss of old radiators and the sound of running water. It’s an easy atmosphere for getting swept up in his own ruminations. The ones he’d almost allowed to get the best of him a moment ago, and Marco is especially grateful that he’s got the chance to comb over those thoughts now.

Had he really been that close to telling Jean how he was truly feeling? That weeks after starting a new medication, Marco  _finally_  thought he might be starting to feel like himself again? That after nearly a decade of living with antidepressants, that he was actually coming to terms with the fact that this was going to be a permanent fact of his life? Even more, that he'd become thankful for it?

It's almost become a chore, Marco realizes; keeping the more complicated parts of who he is to himself, all the while choosing to step into a shared space he's worked to create alongside Jean. That in and of itself, is beginning to feel exhausting.

Jean had still gone with Bertholt. Unstoppable even through the inconvenient fog of illness. He’d bundled himself up, sucked it up and made the two mile trek from his apartment to the Old Dutch Colonial, too stubborn to even drive.

Marco could just imagine Jean’s logic. Could hear him muttering that there was no reason not to walk when he may as well build up some immunity. Could see Jean absentmindedly shoving those glasses back up his face, citing that he knew full well that he had two brothers with their own cars to drive him back home, should it become necessary.

_“How come you never look at me like that when I wear my glasses?”_

The abrupt nature of arrival is enough that Marco is shocked when he manages not to drop his coffee mug on the floor.

“Reiner…”

“Mornin’ Marco.”

Nothing else needs to be said on the matter. Reiner’s shit-eating grin is outdone only by the fact that Marco now exemplifies a deer who has just barely made it out of the deathly pale glare of passing headlights.

“So.” Of course Reiner is the first to speak up. “How exactly did Jean look when he was over here?”

“Like Death forgot to warm him over. Why.”

At this, Reiner can’t help but grin. “Excellent.”

“Are you celebrating Jean being  _sick?_ ”

“No. Not really.” Reiner admits. “See, the thing is that Jeanbo gets kind of stupid when he’s sick.”

It’s a fair assessment. The temperature outside can’t be above fifty degrees, yet Jean had ambled over nonetheless.

“Yeah, but everyone gets that way when they’re sick.”

“Oh do  _not_  defend him!” Reiner can’t hold back his amusement, though Marco continues to hear him out. “All I’m saying is that I would bet money that Jean refuses to eat anything today. Bertie’s gonna hold off out of commiseration all the way until they get home, by which time they’ll both be starving. So I’ve already decided to take care of my baby brothers and am buying dinner for everybody.”

Marco continues to hit Reiner with an unreadable expression. Still deciding whatever it is he should think about this whole thing.  _Fuck_ , when did it become a  _thing_?

“You are such a good brother.” He deadpans.

“Thank you.” Reiner chirps. “I’m well aware.”

* * *

 

Overcast skies and sleeping khaki fields run parallel to the interstate. Jean watches blearily as the asphalt blurs into gravel, the gravel into dead grass, and whatever else man and nature have deemed necessary for scatter.

They’re halfway to their destination, with still more than an hour to go when Bertholt gently shakes Jean awake by the knee. Depthless voice inquisitive and level, he utters some of the only words they’ve exchanged since leaving the driveway.

“Hungry?”

“Not really.” It’s always the same. They both know it. Jean can feel the snot draining down the back of his throat as he speaks, cat-like as he stretches his limbs before settling back into the seat.  “Let’s stop if you are, though.”

Bertholt just shakes his head. “I’d rather save myself for when Reiner takes everyone out when we get back.”

Jean pauses, deals with the ache behind his eyes when he turns his head too quickly. “Like Mom and Dad, Erwin and Levi. Right?”

“Like you and me, Reiner and Marco. You were asleep when he called.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

A fair point, though something still doesn’t sit entirely right with Jean. He toys with his cell phone, shifting it from one hand to the other while deliberating whether or not he wants to shoot Reiner a text.

Ask him what his motivation for such generosity is. Whether he realizes he’s pushing Jean down a path he believes himself content to walk all by himself.

Find out if the hand Marco had placed across Jean’s back had been as noticeable to anyone else as it was to Jean, who could still feel the nonchalant drag of well-meaning fingers.

He's silent long enough for Bertholt to guess where his head is at, and he addresses him without his eyes ever leaving the road.

“Jean.”

“Reiner’s the one who told me to get okay with just being Marco’s friend.”

“And when was that?”

Long enough ago that it takes Jean a moment of deliberation, incredulous that so much time has gone by. “Late August.”

“It’s almost November, Jean.”

“Yeah. I know.”

It’s not exactly a retreat when Jean swipes his phone. He can’t help but smile, tired and wry when he notices most of his text messages go straight to the residents of the Old Dutch Colonial.

[Why dinner?]

 **Rein: 10:32 a.m.**  Why not?

Jean rolls his eyes, listens when Bertholt continues to speak.

“I know you don’t wanna have relationship talks or whatever, but I think back then Reiner wanted to make sure you weren’t getting your hopes up.”

“So are you saying he’s changed his mind?”

“I’m saying you should make your own decisions, but that your helicopter parent of a brother doesn’t seem too worried about it anymore.”

Jean chews on this for a while, becoming lost in his thoughts all over again when he feels his phone vibrate with another incoming text.

 **Rein: 10:39 a.m.**  Ur gonna want/need food I know u. Plus no one’s busy tonight so now or never

[What does that mean?]

 **Rein: 10: 45 a.m.**  Don’t overanalyze. Just come eat.

“And what do  _you_  think, Bertl?”

“Does it matter what I think?”

“I mean. I _care_ about what you think.”

“I think you don’t need everyone telling you what to do. You’ve known what you want for a long while. Haven’t you?”

“I guess. He was about to tell me something, you know.” Jean turns to look at his brother, scrubs a hand through his dirty blond hair. “Marco opened his mouth like he wasn’t even sure what he was about to say, but he sure looked like saying something.”

A nod is all Jean gets in response, though he can’t say that he’d been expecting much more.

“Since… since we’re not wanting to talk about relationship stuff here... How’s Annie?”

“She’s good. Fine.”

“Ever think she’ll come up this way? Who else does she have in Ann Arbor?”

“Not a soul.” Bertholt smiles, though he almost hisses the words in bleak amusement. “But I think that’s kind of her point.”

“Okay.” Jean allots his brother all of his attention, his tone gentle and pressing him on.

“I think she’s just overstimulated.” Bertholt speaks with empathy and affection, and what Jean imagines is an inhuman amount of patience. “She immigrated when we did. Babies. After the fire we all went to the same home. She started looking around before Reiner and I were even adopted, and apparently found the uncle who came here with her and her dad. He skipped town after the fire, figuring he could write himself off as dead, right? Figured that of course Annie would be taken care of, and boom. All of a sudden he didn’t have a child to think about anymore.”

“Are you fucking  _serious_.”

“ _But_ , he went back. To Germany.” He sounds different now, as this part of the story elicits feelings of anger and abandonment that Jean cannot even fathom. “Didn’t count on Annie showing up. A pissed off sixteen year old who’d been legally emancipated, graduated high school early and saved all of her money just to get herself to Europe. And she told the relatives  _everything._ ”

“That’s…” Jean shakes his head in amazement, leans back against the headrest and stares out at the sky. “That’s something. It’s insane. Good for her.”

“Yeah.” Bertholt agrees. He’s not ready to tell Jean about the journals she’d kept in her absence, or how she’d begun mailing them to him last year. Shortly after they’d spoken for the first time in years. Sketchbooks full of every place she’d seen in Europe. Faces of the cousins and community she’d come to know, and the places they might have all been from. Centuries-old buildings and monuments from the art university she’d attended in Dresden. Renderings of Bertholt and Reiner as she’d remembered them in childhood.

Bertholt sighs, and it comes from the depths of his chest. “I don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

Jean nodded, not requiring any explanation regarding whatever  _that_ entailed. “I’m glad for you.”

“I think she’ll come here eventually.” Bertholt continues quietly. “Either way. Doesn’t matter. I still want to marry her someday.”

It’s a bold statement. Jean chews his lip in contemplation, keeps staring forward when he speaks. “You seem so certain about that.”

“You’re not the only one who’s gone years knowing what it is he wants most in life.”

* * *

 

It isn’t bothersome to think that they haven’t arrived yet, even though the sun’s already gone down.

It’s that time of the year that Marco tends to like best. The necessity of layers and air permanently chilled. The logical side of his brain grounding him into a twenty-four hour cycle, while his more sentimental side can indulge in earlier sunsets.

Dozens of televisions sound off in unison throughout the restaurant; a once meager, local affair that’s grown over the years to accommodate and welcome the community by and large. Marco and Reiner sit at the bar, talking among themselves to the tune of a particularly tight football game.

“I like sports.” Reiner shares quietly, shifting an amber colored bottle from hand to hand. “Never played much outside our backyard, though.”

“Mm.” Marco hums around a pull of his beer. “Why’s that?”

“I liked band. Jean and Bertie were in band. But more than that I’m not about to do something just because people tell me it’s something I should do.”

Marco nods to that, like Reiner his eyes fixed to an elevated television screen.

“Fuck ‘em, Reiner.”

It’s enough to earn him a grin and a bit of appreciative laughter, and Reiner clinks the necks of their beer bottles together.

“Fuck ‘em.”

They take to companionable silence after that, Reiner furrowing his brow at the game while Marco keeps one eye on the door and the other on the play. He can feel it when Reiner turns to look at him, knows he’s being called out and assessed with a discretion few people take Reiner for.

It’s one of countless nuances that Marco’s learned about him throughout the years. One that he’d hate to recognize in another person years down the road. Long after Reiner and Bertholt have stepped out of his life, when someone will inevitably remind Marco of the good people that found cause to leave him behind.

“Hey Reiner?”

“Hey Marco?”

And then there’s the way he and Reiner have built their own microcosm over the years. Bertholt, too. An endless series of protections and inside jokes, and the way they’ve invented their own nonverbal cues and means of communication. There’s a piece of Marco’s heart belonging exclusively to them for the people Reiner and Bertholt are, and the friendships they all share.

There’s a loaded pause as Marco takes his time to think over whatever it is he wants to say, or where he should even start.

_Everything’s tangled up, Reiner._

_I’m not going to ask your permission or blessing on this, but damn do I want it._

_I think in a way you and Bertl might’ve saved my life, and now I want to know what it’d be like to spend it with Jean._

“Thanks for getting me out tonight.”

“It’s good, dude.” Reiner levels Marco with earnestness, looking him over with another swig of beer. “You’re supposed be here.”

Marco does little more than stare at him. Years of unspoken truths, the escalation of obvious affections. He’s no intention of insulting Reiner’s intelligence when they both know what they’re looking at here, and it’s enough for Marco to come away with the security of knowing that everything is going to be okay.

The silence Reiner shares with Marco is different than the sort between himself and his brothers. It’s been like this since their first days in the dorm. Where Marco understood there was plenty to Reiner beneath the surface, he also seemed to recognize that Reiner had no interest in discussing all of it.

Likewise, back then Marco had no intention of introducing himself as a guy trying life without meds for the first time in years.

* * *

 

At the beginning, they’d managed to exist in well-earned geniality for months. Each enjoying their burgeoning friendship for as long as they could without digging any of the hard things up. It seemed one of those unwritten truths between Marco and Reiner that at some point, they would make good on this carefully built trust, and see each other through more difficult times.

It had been Bertholt, pulling Marco away from the curb only seconds before stepping into traffic that had changed the substance of their rapport. The two of them spilling back into the dorm, looking worse for wear.  
  
“Uh.” Reiner had studied the two of them, pushing a textbook off of his lap. Bertholt uncharacteristically wide-eyed. Marco with fists shoved into his pockets, eyes glued to the floor. “How was the walk back from class?”

Bertholt had come up beside Marco, elbowing him gently with the assurance he was okay.

“Alright. Um.” Marco barked with nervous laughter, speaking rapidly and doing his best to look Reiner in the eye while only being able to pull shaking hands through his hair. “What I’m trying to say is, is that I have major depression, okay? Diagnosed and everything. And after I ran out I haven’t refilled any of my meds for it since moving downstate.”

Marco slowed his words, steadied his speech and prayed his voice would not crack and betray him. “And now it’s getting to not be okay.”

He had all of Reiner’s attention, didn’t bother to move when Reiner stood up, moving to stand parallel to Marco as if to inspect him.

“That’s why you’ve got that poster boy smile all the damn time?”

Marco huffs at this. “Worked, didn’t it?”

“Outside of this room, probably.” Reiner admitted quietly, crossing his arms when Marco’s eyes shot up to his. “I mean it pisses that Marlowe kid off, so at band it’s funny. But that’s not who you are, usually. No one in this room expects you to be.”

They had been unexpected sources of light in more than one moment of bleakness.

Some time the following year, Marco had woken in alarm in the middle of the night to Bertholt’s screams. Thrown open the door to his closet-sized bedroom in their cramped apartment, to find Reiner already slumped against the wall outside Bertholt’s door.

Reiner hadn’t even bothered to open his eyes, as he could hear the slow approach of Marco’s footsteps.

“Go back to bed.” He’d croaked. “It’s normal. S’fine.”

For a moment all Marco could do was stare at the door, knew he’d never be entirely rid of the desperate sound of Bertholt’s unconscious pleas. Marco’s words came quiet, but nonchalant when he slid down the wall beside Reiner.

“Are  _you_  okay?”

“I’m used to it. You can go back to bed, Marco. It’s fine.” Reiner shrugged. “Five to ten minutes and it’s over, and he probably won’t remember anything. Unless he wakes up all sweaty.”

“If it’s all the same to you I’ll just stay here.”

Reiner had grunted with amusement, had pat Marco on the knee.

“Why am I not surprised?” Reiner opened his eyes, turned his head to address Marco directly. “Marcel was his cousin. He was home sick from first grade the day our building caught fire. And then they were all gone. I was the one who slept with Bertl after that.”

It was the first piece of a story Marco would take years to hear the entirety of. Never asking for, but always making himself available when it seemed necessary. Finding the line between being a good listener and knowing when to step out of the way.

* * *

 

Marco still remembers the night Jean had shown up at the Old Dutch Colonial, cleaning products in hand while assuring Marco he was wanted. Promising him that he was a part of what had over time become an exclusive group.

He thinks about this now during his and Reiner’s shared silence; the same one they’ve carried between them since the beginning.

“They shouldn’t be much longer.” Reiner concludes with a quick look toward his watch.

Marco just nods, slaps Reiner on the back and returns to the game. He’s not made to wait much longer, is finally spared having to side-eye the entryway, as within minutes the restaurant’s front door opens one more time.

Jean enters first, walking backward in order to keep his eye on Bertholt while they speak. Despite still looking tired, Jean is alight with new energy. A confident grin and sleep-mussed hair, he’s reaching into a pocket while listening to Bertholt, nods in acknowledgement while shoving this morning’s glasses back onto his face.

The confidence is still there when Jean turns toward the bar, though he’s made an effort to rein himself in once he sets eyes on Marco. Makes a concerted effort to dial himself down.

He’s got the entirety of Marco’s attention regardless of his energy; a soft grin and a beer bottle tilted in Jean’s direction in acknowledgement.

* * *

 

They move into a booth, the bare-bulbed ambiance above the table contrasting the velvet black sky outside the window Jean now leans against. Seated across from Marco, Jean ignores the easy jostling he’s getting from his brother, and levels Marco with kind, expectant eyes. Returns the inquisitive smile he’d received upon sitting down.

“Doing alright?”

“Doin’ great.” Jean confirms, one hand absent-mindedly pushing upward at his glasses while asking Marco about his day. Inquires into how the private lessons are going, whether he prefers to be the student or the teacher these days.

Marco answers these and more, welcoming Jean’s barrage of questions. It’s easier this way. Being fed questions to the point he doesn’t have to think of difficult answers. Jean asks most after the day-to-day, and with this Marco feels both interested in and looked after.

He doesn’t bring up the topics he’d nearly broached earlier. Doesn’t tell Jean about how exhausted he occasionally gets, or about the times he prays on the little things just to keep going. French press coffee and well cut vests to help him feel like he knows what he’s doing. Deeply embedded bass lines and mutually agreed upon silences. Sweet-smart glasses and the smell of bonfire smoke infused hair.

Jean probably has a feeling about most of that stuff, anyway.

Perhaps because of this, Marco doesn’t give Jean time to pause for reflection on the moment they’d nearly shared that very morning. It feels like he’s getting away with something, and Marco stretches that feeling as far as he can take it.

Their food arrives en masse; plates and bowls that sizzle with enticement, and the gratitude Jean shows their waitress is just another one of those little things not lost on Marco. He’s seen it countless times during their lunches on Grand River. Suspects he’ll never tire of such idiosyncrasies, and the sentiment extends right into the end of the night.

Tired and happy, but nearing the end of his rope, Jean boxes the majority of his food for lack of appetite. Doesn’t think twice in accepting Marco’s offer to finish their conversation on the ride home.

Reiner slaps Jean on the back before climbing into Bertholt’s car, demanding he start feeling better again as he watches Jean climb into the front of Marco’s car. The corner of Reiner’s mouth lifts slightly as Marco mutters something about being home later, though he fails to meet Reiner’s eyes.

It’s only ten minutes more, but he’ll take it. Jean sits quietly most of the way to his apartment, content to listen as Marco drums his steering wheel, and idly playing with the box of food in his lap. He’s more than content with the course of his day, though at this point Jean is sorely lacking for both mental and physical energy.

Jean’s glasses clink gently against the window as he sighs, laying his forehead against the cool surface.

“Marco?”

“Hm?”

“What was it you were going to say this morning?”

 _Of course he remembers_. Marco chides himself, though he hadn’t really assumed any different. It was one of myriad reasons he’d kept Jean occupied most of the evening.

“How about…” His mouth twists in thought, a soft thud the only sound as the seat meets the back of Marco’s head. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

“That’s gotta be the least satisfactory answer I’ve ever heard in my entire life.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard worse.”

“False.” His eyes are still fixed on Marco as he pulls alongside the curb in front of Jean’s building. He doesn’t blink as Marco pulls into park, turning to face Jean with a devastating smile.

“That doesn’t work on me, you know.”

“I know. Now go inside.” Marco instructs him, voice soft but firm as he reaches across Jean’s space and opens the car door for him. “The glasses are nice, Jean. You should wear them more often.”

“Hm.” Jean narrows his eyes, scrunches his nose. “Guess we’ll just have to  _see_  then, won’t we?”

“Get out of my car.”

“G’night, Marco.”

* * *

 

No one is ever surprised when Jean just shows up out of the blue. Reiner had been so excited the day they’d closed on the house, as to mail a key straight to Jean’s campus apartment in Ohio.

So it is, one rainy night when Jean lets himself into the Old Dutch Colonial. He’s made a talent out of forgetting books or papers around the house, only to make the short trek at his leisure to retrieve them.

The kitchen light is dim, and so Jean makes a point to close the door quietly behind him. It’s no surprise when he finds a body slumped over open books and stray papers. It’s par the course for their lot, and Jean smiles affectionately when he sees that tonight that person happens to be Marco.

Everything changes as Jean draws closer, from his plans for the rest of the night, to the cadence of Jean’s heart when he realizes Marco’s fallen asleep with his wrist against a mug of hot water. Unopened tea bags sit off to one side, while lukewarm water tells Jean that too much time has passed for Marco to still be in this position.

Pulling gently, he examines the sick glow to the inside of Marco’s wrist, cringes at the way the skin has started to blister. Clearly exhausted, Marco sleeps on while something inside of Jean silently breaks.

He’s moving within seconds. Rummaging from one cabinet to the next until he finds what he’s looking for, before crouching beside Marco.

Jean is gentle as he holds Marco’s wrist, bringing the burned skin into the light so he can see better where to apply healing ointment.

Marco feels the cool balm more than the hands tending to his wrist. The fresh, welcome sting of raw skin followed by the press of a much too large bandaid. It’s not quite in Marco’s half-awake, partial consciousness to control the reflex that causes him to pull away, though he finds his hand held in place when he attempts to retract.

“S’just me.”

_Jean._

Marco starts to lift his head before deciding against it. There’s an overwhelming, heartening sense that  _yes, Jean is here_ , though it’s accompanied by an obtrusive sense of grief that insists on going with it.

Jean’s words are hushed. Unnecessarily so, in Marco’s opinion, and he almost misses it when Jean suggests he go up to bed.

Marco stiffens, mumbles something about it not being that late. He’s fine.

Somewhere between insistent and gentle, Jean’s hand clamps to Marco’s shoulder. Something about the gesture feels non-negotiable.

“Couch, then?”

_You just don’t know when to quit, do you?_

“Yeah.” Marco pushes his chair away from the table, wincing when the slow drag grates against the floor makes a noise his head disagrees with.

Though they walk side-by-side, Jean is steps ahead of Marco, quickly grabbing up a blanket and throw pillow before taking his usual spot against the arm of the couch. It’s sheer luck that the remote control is lying on the same cushion that Jean beckons for Marco to occupy, and he’s halfway to something quiet and mindless while throwing the pillow in his lap.

Jean wastes no time in taking up Marco’s arm, bringing it around his shoulder while fixing Marco with both serious eyes and a playful smile.

“You’ve Pavloved me into this, Bodt. Can’t sit here without it, anymore.”

Marco scoffs some tired, yet amused sound. He nods in agreement, and works to squelch the contentious feeling that coincides with Jean reaching for his burned wrist, carefully turning it over and back again before settling it into his lap. Marco doesn't protest the fact that Jean doesn't bother pulling his own attentive fingers away.

“Be more careful, ‘kay Marco?”

And just like that, Jean offers a sense of accountability while providing Marco a way out. He knows that he’ll have complicated thoughts on this later, but for the moment Marco is content to let it go.

“Yep.”

* * *

 

It’s four o’clock in the morning when Bertholt comes downstairs. Still too tired to process his own name, but he’s got his CPS badge and car keys, and enough cash for whatever coffee eventually comes his way once this abrupt work call is over. For now, it will have to be enough.

Broaching the living room, Bertholt catches sight of his little brother and his eyes go wide. He stares from Jean reading in the near dark, to Marco, sound asleep in Jean’s lap. Jean's free hand rests easily between broad shoulder blades, Marco's face buried into a pillow and his arms tucked tightly underneath himself.

Jean throws Bertholt a gesture somewhere between a salute and wave.

“Everything okay?”

“We’ll see when I get there.” A shrug and a sigh. “Here?”

“Um.” Jean closes his book, takes a look at the way Marco curls into himself, his hair a downright nest in Jean’s lap. “He couldn’t sleep. Until he  _could_. So.”

Bertholt takes a moment and his eyes narrow to better inspect the rise and fall of Marco’s chest, and he'll be damned if Marco isn't truly asleep. “If he snapped at you, don’t take it personally. M’pretty sure he’s been at it for two days straight.”

“’kay.” Jean pauses, trying to envision Marco of all people snapping at anyone. Let alone him. “That hasn’t been an issue, but I’ll keep it in mind?”

Bertholt bites down on his lip, thinking while quietly opening the front door. “Marco just doesn’t sleep well all the time.”

“Got it.” Silence passes between them before Jean lets Bertholt go with an appreciative smile. “Be careful today, Bertl.”

“Will do.”

 

 


End file.
